


The Emperor's Will

by CiaphasKhaine



Category: Destiny (Video Games), Warhammer 40.000
Genre: All techpriests are kinda heretics, Black Templars, Crossover, First work here!, Gen, Lamenters, Less serious marines, Space Marines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2019-10-13 13:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 29,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17488610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CiaphasKhaine/pseuds/CiaphasKhaine
Summary: A group of the Imperium's finest, ranging from the Astartes, the Inquisition, and the Mechanicus, find themselves alone and confused after a warpstrom reroutes them during a jump to Terra.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A skitarii wakes up, confused and disconnected from the rest of the Mechanicus forces. He makes his way through the ship, and discovers he isn't nearly as alone as he had thought.

The dark was cold. It deeply unnerved the skitarii, which an achievement all on its own. The sheer silence of the sleeping ship made him uneasy, no noise coming from any direction within the winding maze of the inside of the Ark’s corridors, no distant grinding of machinery and parts, no gentle hum of the warp engines, no shuffling feet of servitors as they moved about the ship, performing their routine operations upon the ancient vessel, nothing. It was all gone, filled by a deep void that seemed to absorb any noise that came to it.

Something was wrong. He had woken up on the ground with a splitting headache mere minutes ago, and he could tell something had happened during his moment of unconsciousness. Cautiously he knelt down, frantically feeling around the cold metal floors of the ship for his weapon. It _should_ have been here, it _must_ be here! For a single moment, panic flooded the skitarii’s thoughts, the illogical feeling making him sick to his nutrient-processors. _**Where was it!?**_

Then he felt it, the bottom of his weapon’s grip. He felt it up, gently rubbing around the intricate metalwork, the beautiful woodworking, the cold steel in his hands. The soldier shook his head, clearing it from the sickness that had plagued it for that dizzying moment. He held it in his hands in the same way that a mother would hold her child, an air of veneration held between him and it. He spun the cylinder, and the room was flooded with deep, blue glow from the vents on the side of the weapon’s cylinder. The light dimmed, but never faded as he held it in his hands. He drawn to the light, like a moth to flame. The skitarii considered his options for a moment. He could wait here, possibly forever, or he could go looking.

He counted off the corridors, then chose one at the count of ten.

 

…

 

The sounds of conflict were clear. Metal against metal, the explosive bang of rounds being fired, grunts of effort and strain, and the occasional sound of a body thudding against the ground. These were all natural, of course. Picking up his pace to a sprint, the skitarii pressed himself against the wall of the darkened corridor before leaning around the edge of the door frame to get a better view of the ongoing battle.

Whatever they were, they were no ordinary xenos. Nearly a dozen of them were visible, all ranging greatly in size from barely the size of a man, to a towering giant wielding the most massive cleaver the soldier had seen up until that point. If he hadn’t known better, he would have felt sorry for the combat servitor they had all jumped onto. The servitor spun from its mid-section, flinging off the smaller drones that had climbed onto it, quickly dispersing two with a few shots from its arc-rifle in quick succession of eachother. To the servitor’s credit, it was doing the best it could with what it had, and what it had wasn’t very much for the lobotomized creature to work with.

Another volley of electric bolts flew from its weapon, each shot tearing through the aliens they made contact with, instantly frying them upon impact. The skitarii hesitated, tightening his grip around his rifle and taking in a few breaths. He could very well end this right now with a few well-placed rounds from his weapon, he knew this. Why was he hesitating? He steeled his resolve, turned the corner, and aimed at the nearest of the aliens.

Everything slowed to him, time itself grinding to a stand-still as he wrapped his finger around the grip of his rifle, his cybernetics in sync, his neural cogitators all warming up, drawing his hands towards the recognized heads of the scrawny, frail aliens before him. The cylinder of the weapon came to life as he pressed down the trigger, a deep cyan filling the room as a bolt of energy flew from the barrel of his weapon and hurdled into the xeno’s head, tearing it to shred in an instant.

His weapon hissed as the cylinder cycled, readying another bolt as he readied his aim again, his sights falling back onto another one of the aliens, this one giving off an ominous and off putting glow. Its arms crossed against its chest and gut as it turned and shambled towards the skitarii. He paused for a moment, then fired again.

The room was illuminated in a burst of green hellfire, engulfing the rest of the smaller aliens near it, all of them screaming as they burnt to singes. The skitarii could only watch as he cowered in fear, covering his face as he staggered back and away from the fire. These were no aliens he knew, no tyranids or greenskins, none of the demented Eldar he had fought before, these were new, much more primal creatures.

As he cowered, something came from the flames, something much larger than the other aliens. The giant he had seen before, its massive and bulky cleaver in hand as it marched towards him. Everything slowed again as the beast marched towards him, and the skitarii could do little. He couldn’t move, his breathing slowed to a halt, and his grip upon his weapon weakened.

He was afraid.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A deathwatch killteam is separated from the Mechanicus and Inquisition ships which requisitioned them. They work their way out of the ship, and find that something has gone terribly awry.

The chaplain grunted, pushing off the heap of scrap and metal off of his back as he stood, clasping his hands around his knees for a moment of support. Whatever had happened to the ship happened in a single moment, and, sadly, he hadn’t minded to pay attention to it. All that he had left of the moment was a pounding headache, a fuming temper, and a regrettable ding in the curve of his breastplate. He snorted and straightened himself, taking a moment to look around the ship which was now devoid of any sort of light.

“Sound off, who’s not dead?”

He grabbed his sidearm out of instinct, but relaxed when the voice registered.

“I’m over here, Issif.” He brushed off his pauldron, scraping some of the dirt out of the crevasses of the Death Watch heraldry and wiping it onto his leg. The chaplain activated his right optic, lighting up the corridor well enough to see a few feet in front of him.

“Ah, was worried you’d survived the crash, Sekmet.” Issif joked, his massive boots making a deep clanking against the metal grounds as he moved toward Sekmet, his angled helmet soon coming into view. “Have any clue where the others are, old man?” He glanced about the room, the ruby-red glass of his helmet’s ports glistening against the light of Sekmet’s false eye.

“Probably still out.” Sekmet did the same, turning looking over his shoulder and back again, turning his gaze back over to Issif. “Any clue what happened?”

“No, none at all.”

Issif grunted and cupped his hands around the front of his helmet, leaning forward into the darkness.

“GANNET! CLEMONS! SARGON!” His voice boomed down the corridor, into the darkness before him. Sekmit laughed and clasped his hand around Issif’s shoulder.

“If they’re all out, what makes you think they can hear you?” Sekmet chuckled as he pushed himself past his brother and made his way down the corridor of the ship, with Issif following in suit. “Cockpit first, if we’ve crashed we need to find out if we still have a pilot or not.” The chaplain ordered, looking over his shoulder, back at Issif, who simply replied with a nod.

“Sivas is a big boy, he should be fine.” Issif folded his arms, still trailing behind Sekmet.

“If we’re somewhere without an atmosphere, it doesn’t matter how tough you are, your helmet’s the only gap between you and the warp.” He warned, turning the corner.

Sekmet felt along the wall of the ship, knowing exactly where to turn and exactly where everything was. He stopped, knowing the cockpit was directly in front of him. He huffed as he grabbed around the borders of the cockpit’s door, attempting to get a firm grip on its small borders. He tugged a few times, and then put his back into it, bending the door gently.

He grunted slightly, then waved Issif over.

“Mind giving me a hand with this, friend?” The chaplain asked with a chuckle.

“Don’t worry old man, I know your back’s gone out.” Issif replied in good jest, following Sekmet and wrapping his hands around the door as well. He nodded at the chaplain.

Sekmet counted down from three, and then the two peeled the door from its frame, almost completely tearing it off of the ship. The two bent it to the ground, and Sekmet stepped over it with ease.

The cockpit was just as black as the rest of the ship, and as Sekmet examined the room, the worst the situation became. The cockpit’s windshield was broken, dirt pouring into the ship’s interior.

They had been buried.

Sekmet placed a hand against the forehead of his helmet before scooting aside, making room for Issif to enter. The Templar fumbled around the room for a moment before grabbing onto the pilot’s chair and leaning down onto it.

He placed his other hand onto the shoulder of the man in the chair, shaking him gently.

“Sivas! Sivas, are you dead?” Issif thumped his knuckle against the side of the pilot’s head, gently enough to get a response out of him.

The marine jumped in his chair, bringing up one arm to cover his face in defense of Issif’s prodding. His eyes took mere moments to adjust to the dark, and he sighed as he stood from his chain and let his hand drop to his side.

“Emperor’s tits, man! What possessed you to do that?” Sivas shook his head as he fumbled and felt along the ground for his helmet, struggling to find it in the pitch black darkness of the room. “Did you feel the need to kill me the moment I woke up?”

Issif snorted as he backed away from the pilot. “No, I just wanted to see you piss yourself. Didn’t work, sadly.”

Sekmet pushed Issif towards the hall, separating the two. “We needed to make sure you were fine. There’s no getting out of here if there’s no pilot.”

Issif snickered, pointing a finger towards the cracks and breaks in the windshield. “Looks like there’s no getting out of here in general, I’m afraid.” He shrugged as he turned to exit the cockpit.

Sekmet followed suit, and gestured for Sivas to do the same.

 

…

 

“Well, it’s good to see you lads still kicking.” Issif waved one hand towards the small gathering in the corridor.

Four marines had gathered there, each one looking more irritated than the last. The apothecary broke his gaze from the door and turned to see the approaching marines.

“Damn, I was hoping you two had bitten the dust during the crash.” He stuck out a hand towards Issif, who shook it without hesitation. “And I assume you have no clue where we are, either?”

“None at all.” Issif shook his head. Looking at the gathering of marines again, something seemed out of place to him. “Where is Xared?”

Another marine spoke up. “We assume he fell out somewhere along the way.” The marine hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “Targok found a dreadnought sized hole in the bottom of the ship a few paces back.”

“Always so observant, the Mantis Warriors.” Issif chuckled.

“Remind me to leave you to die when you get your legs blown off by an angry greenskin, Templar.” Targok fiddled with his Narthecium, making sure it was settled onto his forearm.

“Enough you two.” Sekmet intervened, pushing his way to the center of the crowd of marines. “We need to get out of here.” He tapped a knuckle again the wall of the ship. He tapped again, listening for the thinnest point of the ship’s armor. He tapped again, and then another time, listening for the highest pitched sound his knuckle made against the wall.

He moved let his hand drop on its own to the chained Crozius on his side, wrapping his fingers around it before tugging at the weapon’s grip, instantly breaking the mag-chain’s connection and lifting it away from his side and bringing it up the ship’s hull.

“Stand back!” Sekmet yelled, swinging the weapon into the ship’s side and tearing a massive crater into the metal.

Light fluttered into the ship, along with the sounds of running water and birdsongs. Sekmet pressed back the torn metal, making the hole large enough for him to step out of the ship. He looked up, covering his eyes and his helmet adjusted to the natural lights of the planet. As he took a few steps forward, the other marines poured out of the ship and trailed behind him.

Targok knelt and took a handful of soil from the ground, rubbing his thumb into it and searching through it before dropping the dirt back onto the ground. His helmet adjusted as well as he took in his surroundings. “This is...”

“The ship was headed where it needed to. This is…by the Emperor, this is...” Sivas took a moment to realize it as he turned to Sekmet. “Sir, this is Terra, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first attempt at actually posting some of my writing! I know they're not very long, but I'm open to any sort of criticism! Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cabal find that they've bit off more than they could chew on Mars after a massive ship matching no records crashes. They find that the ships inhabitants are a bit more capable than they estimated.

The ship was dark. The centurion could hardly see three meters in front of him, and the ship’s corridors were packed so tightly together that they all had to walk in single file to move anywhere. The vessel matched nothing they had on record, no Eliksni ships, no Hive tomb vessels, and certainly no Vex constructs. It was foreign, larger than even the largest of their military ships, but it was built for something half of their size.

As he pondered on its nature, the centurion found himself relieved as the narrow corridor opened up into a wider, more open room. He sighed, and the est of the cabal forces flowed out of the minuscule crevasse in the wall. Just as he turned to give an order to his subordinates, a series of lights blinded the squadron, leaving them all no time to react as a single human word was screamed into the dark, and they were all torn to pieces.

“FIRE!”

  


…

Lazarus was amazed by how easy it was to lure them into the trap. He flashed the signal to cease fire, and the dozens of autocannons, bolters, and stubbers all silenced themselves at once.

His gaze fell upon the corpses of the invading aliens, all torn to shreds by their weapons, of course. Before their assault, they had been massive, lumbering giants that barely fit inside the ship. Now, they were all bloody ribbons and streaks against the wall. The room was silent.

Lazarus cleared his throat and turned to face the rest of his company.

“Men, we have just made the first step against these aliens, and we will soon make many more.”

The room was no longer silent. Thunderous applause for such a simple statement, along with enthralled amusement in the form of boisterous laughter and merriment. He simply nodded along to it, and waited for it to pause before continuing.

“I want you all to split up into teams of thirty and to clear out the ship. After that, find out where they’re coming from and form a defensive line. I want this ship _secure_ , men!” He ordered, hitching a thumb over his shoulder and over to the darkened corridor.

The hundreds of scions saluted him, and began to pack up their heavy weapons in a hasty, but efficient, manner as they all marched out of the room.

The only one that stayed where he was was his equal, Able.

“You know, that was a fine light show you had, Lazarus.”

Lazarus snorted before rolling his eyes. “Of course it was. I planned it.”

Able chuckled in reply, fixing his posture and standing back up straight as Lazarus passed him and moved back towards the Inquisitor’s quarters. He shrugged and followed him, hands tucked into his jacket’s pockets.

Rasputin’s room was dimly lit by candles as well as an archaic fireplace, and it faintly smelt like a designer brew. Various bottles of port, whiskey, wine, and other fine drinks packed the cabinets that lined the walls. Books, either for his own study or of his own writing, were strewn about a desk at the furthest corner of the room, ancient trophies and relics hung from the roofs and plaques placed around erratically on the walls. A room befitting an inquisitor, of course.

Lazarus and Able stood at attention behind his desk. Lazarus hesitantly moved to take off his helmet, tucking it under his arm afterwards and saluting Rasputin, who was still sitting down and had made no effort to acknowledge their presence.

“Sir, the others are working on clearing out the aliens.”

Rasputin simply nodded.

“When they have completed that, see to it that the enginseer gets the ship up and running. I need to know where we are, Lazarus.” Rasputin ordered as he flipped through the pages of a book on his desk before taking a swig of some drink in an intricate glass cup.

“Yes, sir!” The scion saluted again.

“Oh, and Able,” Rasputin turned his chair a few inches to face the two scions. “I want you to find a group of reliable men, and I need you to subdue one of those aliens. I need it alive, as well.” He joked before turning back to his book.

Able nodded and saluted as well.

“Yes sir.”

Rasputin waved them away, and the two scions turned on their heels before exiting the room.

…

Whatever was chasing him, terrified him. The psion ran as fast as it could through the darkness of the ship, bumping and stumbling into random items in its way as it fled.

The thing was vaguely human shaped. It looked like no guardian, but its presence…by god its presence…

Nothing had horrified it as this had, nothing had ever felt as _**wrong**_ as this had. The psion had no choice, it would have killed it had it stayed in formation. The cabal, as dense as they were, could not see the danger this lone thing presented. It had to run.

Now it was being chased, and the human-thing’s presence burnt away at the psion’s sanity bit by bit. It could only run, and hope that it could hide.

Then it happened in an instant. Something burnt through its leg, and the psion slammed into the ground face-first, screeching all the while. One hand wrapped around its leg, the psion could only attempt to crawl away. It had to escape. It had to get away.

Then the human-thing grabbed its leg. It screeched once again, feeling the thing’s presence like a crushing vice around its head. It screamed again, only for something to slam against the back of its head, knocking it out completely and instantly.

The human-thing threw the psion over its shoulder, and placed two fingers on the temple of its helmet.

“Rasputin? This is Able.”

The inquisitor’s voice became garbled and covered in static over the commsm but it was still discernible.

“Yes, Able?”

A smug smirk was plastered across Able’s face underneath his helmet.

“Package secured and en route. Its a little banged up, though.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Deathwatch killteam encounter something, and find themselves outmaneuvered in the dead of night.

The camp was simple enough. A firepit, a few rudimentary ‘beds,’ and a seat for whoever was tasked with watch duty. And, as a sign of good faith, Sekmet just so happened to have volunteered for first shift.

The others settled down, engaging in their nightly rituals as best they could. They all removed their armor, disassembled their weapons for cleaning, and gave their nightly prayers. All of them, bar Sekmet.

“None of you believe me, do you?” Sargon asked, sitting with his legs crossed.

Sekmet immediately attempted to diffuse the situation, knowing well what would happen if he didn’t. “We believe you, Sargon, it’s just that-”

“You sound like a damned idiot, mate.” Clemons butted in, a hint of mischief and mockery blatant in his tone.

“I saw what I saw you damn-”

“Sargon!” The chaplain barked. The marines all sat in silence for a moment, all of them petrified by the chaplain's gaze.

The Dark Angel shook his head before rolling over in his makeshift bed.

Sekmet turned back around, directing his attention to the infinite forest that sat in front of him. He could get lost just staring at it. This _was_ Terra. As time past everything went by in a blur as he was consumed in though and intrigue.

Was this Terra?

 

What had happened to the Terra he knew?

 

Where were the mechanicus?

 

The inquisitor?

 

Then something broke his focus. A snapping branch several meters out. The chaplain made no sudden moves, and made no effort to scare off whatever made the sound. Slowly, he let his hand move down toward his crozius, grabbing its handle softly. His helmet’s optics cycled through their modes, but caught nothing.

Something was out there, and it was either very quick, or very advanced.

Sekmet released his grip on the crozius moved it slowly over to his right thigh, taking a hold of his sidearm, his personal combi-melta, and aiming it towards the beginning of the treeline. Sekmet squeezed the weapon’s trigger, and the weapon jolted to life, firing a volley of energy at the trees and setting them all ablaze. For a moment, everything burned. He couldn’t hear the confused stammers and yells of the marines behind him as they scrambled to don their armor and ready their weapons. He couldn’t hear Issif barking out orders to the other marines. All he could hear was the burning of the trees and the cracking of the wood underneath the flames his weapon produced. Then he saw it, the figure. The thing’s outline became visible as it moved, giving a vague humanoid outline as it slithered about. It leaped from the top of a tree, and the chaplain raised his sidearm again, moving his finger to the bolter trigger this time, and squeezing it.

A bolt flew through the air, hurdling towards the invisible figure. To the thing’s credit, it almost managed to dodge it. Almost.

The bolt slammed into the figure’s thigh, exploding upon digging in and sending the thing flying several feet back. Then it screamed. A human scream, something that Sekemt recognized within an instant. He adjusted his aim to fire again, sticking out his sidearm with a single hand only for it to be knocked away by a purple disk. As the object made contact with his hand, it felt as if his every muscle was on fire for a mere moment.

“DEFENSIVE FORMATION!” Everything snapped back into reality, and his hearing became clear as Issif barked the order. Sekmet scrambled to collect his sidearm, grabbing it and putting his back to the rest of his killteam without hesitation.

“Where the hell are they?” Targok broke the silence first, cycling through the modes of his helmet in an attempt to find the attackers. “Are they human? Chaos?”

Sekmet hushed him, surveying the battlefield once again, looking desperately for the thing he had made contact with in order to properly end it. His helmet picked up on the trail of inky black grime its leg had created one it was blown off, but the trail went cold. Leading only to a patch of (quickly fading) residual energy where the thing had landed after being knocked out of the air so swiftly.

The marines stood in silence for a moment, their weapons readied, aimed with impunity, and loaded with full magazines. The silence would have broken any lesser men, and to Sekmet it felt as if hours had passed in the span of mere moments. Then he heard another snap at the edge of the burning treeline, and fired a volley of bolter shells at the unseen enemy. The air exploded in a puff of pink mist, and he heard more grunts and groans from the attacker. Its invisibility fell for the briefest moment, revealing a cloaked figure, its arms lined with the skeleton of some serpentine creature. On its thigh rested an antiquated design rarely seen in Imperial times and almost completely forgotten; a revolver.

Issif broke formation, charging at the smaller figure with his powered sword at his side. The Templar swung at the attacker, his blade skimming the top of his targets armor and cutting into a few layers of cloth fabric and metal armor. The attacker flipped back, landing on its feet a few meters away from Issif and drawing its revolver, spinning the cylinder and taking several stray shots at the Champion’s helmet, doing little but grazing it and chipping the black paint. Issif charged once again.

Then there was a scream from the treeline. The voice demanded respect and subordination, and was clearly female in pitch. A figure in long robes and wearing something akin to a tribal band emerged from the treetops, hovering above the gathering of marines with something in its hands. A purple orb rested itself in her palms, and only grew in size as she threw it closer to the marines.

“SCATTER!” Sekmet pushed Sargon and Gannet forwards, ushering them to move as far as they could from the area they had gathered in. Targok and Clemons did the same, both of them sprinting several meters away and readying their weapons again, with Clmeons unleashing a volley of bolter shells from his weapon at the target and Targok doing the same to the best of his ability with his bolt pistol. Exevec rolled out of the way, drawing his plasma pistol hastily only for it to be knocked out of his fist by an unseen force. As he rolled again to grab it, another figure emerged from the treeline and smashed into his side, shouldering the marine’s gut and sending him staggering back several feet and into the dirt.

As the orb made contact with the ground, it was as if a hole to the warp itself had been opened. The thing burnt to be near, and it hissed and screamed as it dug into the dirt, leaving only a crater in its wake.

Targok ran to the Maccragian, pulling him up and to his feet while assessing the figure that had attacked him. His narthecium came online, its drill spinning and spitting fumes into the air as it burnt its fuel. The apoothecary charged the attacker, throwing a gut-punch in an attempt to impale it swiftly with his drill. The figure moved in time, only being grazed by his weapon.

Clemons fired another volley of shells at the floating attacker, only for it to dodge them with ease as it seemingly teleported towards the devastator. He adjusted his aim again, and again, and again, only for the same result. As the figure grew closer, it readied something in its hand. Clemons would have known the general shape of it anywhere, as well as the way it was held. A grenade. He adjusted his aim, firing instead at the attacker’s hand. This time, she wasn’t fast enough.

The grenade detonated in her hand as the bolt made contact with it, tearing her hand to shreds and sending her sprawling to the ground, shrieking in pain as she grabbed the stub of what remained of her hand. Clemons adjusted his aim again, lining up the perfect shot that would tear the attacker in two. Before he could fire, another figure emerged from the treeline holding what looked like a golden pistol in its hand. The figure burnt brightly, took aim, and fired the gun once into Clemon’s chest.

The shot bored through his armor, burning its way into his chest. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. He felt everything stop, the sounds dimming and his vision blurring. He waited for a moment, the pain drowning out all other senses. Had he died?

He waited, not even a second passing, yet feeling as if it was an eternity. What had it hit? As he waited, he felt his heart pump again, and all returned to normal as he dropped the upper grip of his bolter and clutched at his breasatplate, heaving.

“Hit the wrong heart, bastard.” He chuckled as he lifted his weapon up once again, letting loose another series of shots at his attacker.

Something screamed from the treeline, another human voice. A moment of distraction, and all of the marines found themselves bound to the ground, disarmed. They found themselves tethered to the ground, being pulled to their knees by some unholy force emitted by an arrow fired into the ground.

After a moment of struggle, the marines found themselves on their backs, defenseless against their attackers, all of them struggling to stand against the force emitted against them them.

Their attackers surrounded them. Sekmet’s autosenses counted twelve of them, all circling them like a predator ready to bite out the throat of crippled prey.

He listened intently above the curses, swears, and threats of his battle brothers.

“What the hell are these things?” A feminine voice questioned, moving towards Sekmet and kicking at his leg.

“That one took off my fucking hand!” Another feminine voice, extremely angry.

“They spoke English, though.”

Sekmet could only listen.

“So? The fallen can speak English, too. Lets just kill them and get it over with.”

“No. We take them to the city.”

…

The marines marched, as per Issif and Sekmet’s orders. Their local vox network was abuzz with theories and ideas on how to escape, all shot down by Sekmet as they were proposed.

“Can’t we just kill them and run for it?” Sargon recommended. “If they can’t manage to use their magic or _whatever_ that was, we could kill them in a moment.”

“What if they can use it, you dolt.” Clemons retorted over the vox.

“I don’t want to stitch you all back together. I’d be willing to do maybe two of you, but all six of you would be an annoyance.” Targok joked, shrugging.

The marines continued to bicker as they marched with their hands shackled behind their backs. They had been doing this for hours on end, with no stopping in sight.

But as they reached a hill, something rested at its crest. It was massive, even if they couldn’t see the entirety of its from. It was a cracked sphere, pure white and moving up in down in a swaying motion as they saw it.

Sargon laughed through the vox.

“See! Look what it is!”

The other marines starred at it as they climbed to the top of the hill, amazed and astounded by the sheer size of it.

“I told you I saw it!”

Their captors climbed the hill after them, and stopped to look at it as well.

“That, my large, well-armed friends, is the Traveler.” The cloaked figure explained before pointing at the massive walls that surrounded it. “And that, is the last City.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The skitarii find himself down an arm and at the mercy of a much larger foe, and believes himself to be finished until he finds an odd ally.

When the skitarii could focus once again, he noticed the blade in his arm. It tore into his cybernetics, struggling against the metal fused with flesh. Then, in a single movement, the beast severed his arm from him, throwing it across the room with its blade. His breath staggered again, and his focus became tempered. The skitarii swore at the alien, kicking and punching the best he could while he was within its grasp.

Then something bored through it’s guts, preceded by a sound of charging coils. Still holding the skitarii firmly in its grasp, the beast fell underneath its own weight. He peeled the alien corpse off of him, rolling it to the side before standing up and grabbing his stump.

“Oh my god, are you okay?”

The skitarii instinctively reached for his weapon, his remaining hand hovering over his thigh. The figure in front of him was human enough, and he of all people knew how to notice armor and augmentations. He let his hand relax, standing in silence for a moment and allowing himself to assess the situation.

“I am well.” He replied after a moment.

“Do you-my god, you need some help!” The figure made its way closer to him, and the skitarii staggered back, grabbing at his stub.

“This wound is purely superficial. Replacing an arm is no issue.” He insisted, never taking his eyes away from the figure. “Do you intend to harm me?” He asked, knowing full well any lies or fibs would be picked up by his sensors in an instant.

The figure chuckled, then shook its head. “Not particularly, but really, I need to get you some help.”

As far as he could tell, the figure told no lies. “No. I need to re-initiate the ship’s core systems. The ship is multitudes more important than my well being.”

The figure slumped its shoulders, shaking its head slightly. “What? You’re not making any sense.”

“It’s simple. I need to restore functionality to the ship, commune with the tech-priest, and transport the holy titan to Mars.” He explained. The figure rubbed its fingers together for a moment, trying to understand.

“I don’t think I follow...” It fiddled with its hands again, shaking its head slightly.

“I can show you, if need be.” The skitarii offered before turning his back to the figure to pick up his weapon from the ground. Holding it with a single arm was awkward, but manageable, if a bit inaccurate. “I am certain my fellow skitarii are defending the ship somewhere. I must simply be out of the Magos’ range of communication.”

The figured simply stared at the him for a moment before shrugging.

“What the hell, I’ve got a few hours before I’m needed anywhere else.”

The skitarii nodded, grateful that he didn’t have to explain further. He stuck out his remaining hand to the figure, who shook it without hesitation.

“My name is Daedelus Golf Beta.”

The figure nodded before letting go of his hand.

“I’m Eliana-2.”

 

…

 

Daedelus guided her towards the center of the ship, carefully navigating around pitfalls and abrupt endings that plagued the Ark’s design. The sounds of combat were distant, but intense, lasting long periods without any intervals of silence.

“So...” Eliana cleared her throat. “You and your people, you mentioned a tech-priest? Are you some sort of religious...group?”

Daedelus nodded. “We are followers of the machine god. The Omnissiah.” His heart swelled at the very mention of the machine god, and Daedelus felt a deep sense of pride as the name came out of his mouth. “We are the defenders of the flame of technology.”

“So you worship machinery?” She paused for a moment. “What about synthetic life and things like that?”

“Absolutely not.” He spat, disgusted by the very implication. “The abominable intelligence is a threat to all.”

Eliana grumbled something under her breath, subtle enough for his cochlear implants to pick up, but not loud enough for him to understand. Daedelus knew he must be wary around those outside of the machine cult, even this one. Daedelus continued down the winding corridors, delving deeper into the maze of brass and steel, following the ever approaching sounds of conflict. If his memory served, they would be approaching the central core of the ship, the bundle of cogitators, calculators, and engines that all served as the hub of the ship’s functions which sat underneath the magos’ perch and central command station.

Logically, all the skitarii must have came to the same conclusion; the defense of this area was essential.

He hastened his pace, jogging to the ends of corridors and taking turns to get closer to the sounds of conflict. As he turned a corner, Daedelus saw flashes of green and blue lights splash against the walls at the end of the tunnel, a series of never ending colors that coincided with the firing of weapons. He hastened his pace further, breaking into a full sprint, Eliana still behind him.

As he entered the room he was treated to a perfect display of defense and the powers of the machine god. Dozens of other skitarii, servitors, battle-automata, thallax, ursarax, lower-ranking tech-priests, and secutari held the line behind overturned tables and vehicles, mowing down waves upon waves of invading xenos, their weapons illuminating the room and showing their full might. He had a single chance to cross, and between the fervor of his kinsmen and the opposing alien forces, he had slim chances of going unscathed. As Eliana caught up with him, she found herself in awe at the sight before her.

“When I say run, you run towards the barrier as fast as you can, but make sure you stay next to me.” He ordered, clasping his hand onto her shoulder, pushing her lower to the ground. He waited, staring unflinchingly at one of the battle-servitors closest to them. It cycled through its ammunition, then paused its assault to reload.

 

“Run.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daedelus reunites with his fellow skitarii, and after receiving treatment from the Magos Achban is tasked with ensuring a certain guest is still contained as it should be.

Bullets, radium rounds, plasma blasts, and lasbolts flew overhead as the Daedelus and Eliana sprinted to the barricade. Catching the attention of the aliens behind them, Daedelus knew haste was needed to escape alive. In a single moment, he wrapped his hand around the grip of his power-knife, tearing it from its sheathe and slicing through an approaching alien, its blood and gore showering the two as they continued towards the wall of guns.

The skitarii began to divert their fire from his position as they recognized him, aiming around and near him, careful not to miss a shot and harm him. Growing closer to the wall, Daedelus found he had the support of the legion behind him, their fire covering his approach and their might protecting him from all harm. The sounds of weapons fire became soon drowned out by approaching footfalls stomping towards the two hastily. The pursuer, whom Daedelus dared not to turn to, was obviously massive from the sound of its footsteps alone.

“Keep running!” Daedelus raised his voice for the first time at her, making sure his grip on her shoudler was still firm and that she was still close to the ground. He just needed to cross the barrier. He just needed to get over it, and they would be safe. His mind raced, his stump tensed up, and his breathing became erratic. Everything felt wrong. He couldn’t think about it, thinking about it would get him killed. He had to push out the growing volume and pace of the foot steps behind him, he had to push out the deafening weapons-fire, he had to push out his irrational fear. All he could focus on was closing the gap between him and his brothers.

In a flash, everything came back into reality. Three Ursarax leaped from the barrier, grappling onto the beast behind him and ripping at it. The previously scattered and erratically aimed rounds became focused upon their pursuer, the skitarii, thallax, servitors, and other servants of the machine god concentrating their fire upon it.

With a roar, the beast fell behind Daedelus, its corpse shaking the ground beneath him. The two would have fallen had it not been for the dozens of servitors and skitarii pulling them behind the barrier and into safety. As his back slammed against the broad side of a fallen dunecrawler, his chest heaved, and his thoughts raced erratically.

The skitarii who pulled him over knelt in from of him, placing his hand on Daedelus’ shoulder.

“Thank the Omnissiah you are alive, brother Daedelus.” Kephaeron nodded at him, his radium rifle resting against his shoulder. “It appears you are a bit worse for wear, and that you have brought a plus-one.” Kephaeron cocked his head toward Eliana, nodding before returning to Daedelus. “This is acceptable. Report to the Magos, he is in the room behind us, along with the navigator.” He stood and offered Daedelus a hand to stand. As he did, his thoughts seemed to clear.

He was safe.

Daedelus turned to Eliana, who looked less shaken than him by warp-weeks. He nodded at her, then bowed slightly. “I thank you, for your assistance earlier.”

“Hey, don’t sweat it. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I am well. Please, stay here with my brothers and sisters. They will ensure your safety.” He insisted, nodding towards Brother Kephaeron.

“I can defend myself, Dee.”

The nickname felt warm to him. He couldn’t understand it, but the feeling was...pleasant.

Kephaeron turned his head towards Eliana once again. “We can always use the additional support. You are welcome to provide defensive fire as well while the Magos and navigator restore the ship.”

Eliana chuckled. “That works fine with me.”

Daedelus nodded towards the two before turning towards the doorway behind the army, descending the flight of stairs and going deeper into the guts of the ship.

 

…

Achban was large. Massive, really. Being a Magos certainly had its fair share of advantages, and having full access to some of the most powerful cybernetics the Mechanicus could offer. The Crux Mechanicus had passed him long ago, and he craved more. More power, more strength, more reliability upon the infallible nature of the machine. Thousands of augmentations, implants, rejuvenation treatments, and enhancements later, he would find perfection within himself.

All that effort, to be put on a mission to find a holy titan, _acquire it_ , _**and then be lost in transit while returning it.**_ He was reasonably upset, or at least he though it was within reason. In the span of a week, he had lost his titan, lost his ship, lost his research, and lost a good chunk of his most important men.

Thankfully, one loss had been negated.

“I’m glad to see you yet live, Daedelus. Down an arm as you may be.” Achban snickered. “That’s an easy enough fix. We seem to have came into a... _surplus_ of spare limbs, recently.”

“Yes, my lord. Thank you.” Daedelus felt obliged to thank him, as venerable as the Magos was. To be as connected to the omnissiah as he was, it was something he could only dream of.

The Magos moved swiftly, and before he knew it, the remnants of his stump had been removed form him, leaving an empty space where his arm should be. As the techpriest moved, a series of mechanical tendrils surrounded the skitarii, prodding and poking at him methodically as they assessed his wounds and documented his status. One of the tentacles raised in front of his face, looking over him before flashing a bright burst of light directly onto him.

Achban grumbled. “You have a malfunctioning lobe suppressor.” His tone was terribly annoyed and partially disheartened as his mechadendrite moved into place to secure his new arm into his shoulder. “Slightly less available, but less crippling.” The Magos shrugged.

Daedelus sat up on the table, rolling his shoulder to get a feel for his new arm. It wasn’t custom-fitted as his previous had been, and, as he saw it, was nowhere near as reliable to him. But it would serve the purpose that it needed to. He gave it a quick few punches into the air to know it better, then rubbed its wrist.

“Now that you’re feeling better. I need you to do something for me while I work here.” Achban cleared his throat before turning back to Daedelus. “Do you remember our guest?”

Daedelus felt his heart skip a beat for a moment. The power went out ship-wide. The containment field.

“I need you to check in on him, and make sure he is still enjoying his room.” Achban’s choice of words were very particular, meticulous and specific. “Maybe take a few servitors with you in case he gets... _aggressive._ ”

Daedelus stood from the table and bowed to the Magos.

“Yes, m’lord.”

 

…

 

Walls of corpses lined the corridors outside the containment field, all with gaping, massive holes blown into them that were cauterized and burnt to a crisp. Daedelus stepped over them warily, not sure as to when he would possibly encounter their unwilling guest. The servitors made no such attempt in subtlety as they followed him, stepping onto and occasionally through the rotting corpses.

Daedelus cautiously entered the room, his weapon readied and aimed to fire at any threat, tucked against his shoulder firmly.

As he took in the room, his worst fear was confirmed. A set of chains dangled from the roof and walls, still locked and in place, their inhabitant long having phased through them and moving on. Where the wargear had been suspended now showed bent plates and panels, distorted through force alone, torn and molded by the strength of a much greater threat.

“Omnissiah, no.”

 

…

 

The witch stood mere meters apart from this _**thing.**_ It was neither alive nor dead, an unholy abomination of both flesh and metal. Its green eyes gazed at it through from down the hall, the rest of its body obscured by the fog of darkness that permeated the air between the two. It simply stared unflinchingly.

The witch raised her arms, summoning forth the energies of the ascendant plane and channeling them though her palms, sending waves of volatile energy at the beast in front of her. As they connected, and they all did, they simply faded. The energies went out like a spark into an ocean.

And it _laughed._

The creature’s amusement apparent, it raised a weapon, on the top of which rested an orb which glowed with an arcane energy, and with a mere press of a button, eviscerated the witch in a single blast from the top of its baneful rod. She was dead instantly, and the following bolts only served to add insult to the act, tearing massive craters into the corpse and spraying the walls with a grime of blood, guts, and flayed flesh.

The being laughed again, walking over to the corpse and crushing her skull beneath its sole.

“Pitiful, pitiful flies.” The Necron shook his head, pitying the creature’s fleeting nature before continuing his march through the human ship.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dreadnought awakens, and seeks retribution for his captured brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has TONS of jumps! Sorry in advance!

Xared felt his eyes force themselves open, prodded by the sunlight and distant birdsong. 

Presented before him were the makings of a lush, fertile forest world. Coniferous trees surrounded him, and sunlight shafted down between their limbs. Birds few from branch to branch, singing in beautiful voices that made him feel at ease. He felt his systems restore themselves to power, and Xared forced himself to stand, his towering frame almost being pulled back to the ground by its own sheer weight. Servos groaned, gears ground against eachother, and hydraulics hissed as he stood. 

His systems assessed themselves, lines of binaric and speeding text scrawled across his vision as they all activated. One final line of text, slowly this time, crawled in front of him.

"Tantum in morte."

And with that, his volkite weapon screeched to life, glowing against the black coat of his armor. Xared raised his weapon once, stretching the joint to get a feel for it once again. The dreadnought turned to see where he had landed, chuckling inwardly as he saw the small crater his landing had made. The hole was littered with stray, torn metal plating that was scuffed, with what little paint remaining upon it being as black as his tomb. 

Xared scanned the surrounding forest, taking note of the trees had had taken down with him as he fell, the angle they had broken, and where the dirt mounded on the crater. Using a little mental math, he estimated the direction his brother's had been moving, and set off, moving steadily and slowly to reunite with his brothers.

 

...

 

As the ship came into view, Xared noted the massive hole in its siding. It had the telltale signs of damage caused by a power weapon, with the panelling being bent and curving in on itself, the edges of the broken metal being singed as if it were burnt by a flamer or a well-placed melta shot, all without the presence of any liquid metals. 

The hole was bent outwards, and he knew it was a struggle to escape, not an attempt at breaching into the wreck. He scanned the area, his sights locking onto several pairs of boot-prints heavily stomped into the dirt, then onto a hand print left on the dirt near them where someone had grabbed at the grass and weeds, pulling up a small chunk. 

They had been here, and they had all made it out. Xared felt immensely relieved,  his worries untrue. If his brothers had survived the crash, he knew they must be nearby. His autosenses locked onto the deepest pair of boots, clearly from Clemons, the team's devastator. The prints were illuminated, creating a clear path for him to follow, and so he did. 

Xared began his march once again, a renewed vigor fueling his determination.

 

...

 

The campsite was abandoned, an air of tension still ripe within the air as the forest smoldered in front of it, the trees having been burnt away hours ago with only husks and embers remaining as evidence to its existence.

Conflict had happened here, and he knew they had lost. Blood stained the dirt, a puddle forming inches away from where heavy boots had imprinted the soil. 

A still-burning crater in the dirt, warpfire ablaze within it, burnt with taint and corruption that revolted Xared to his very core.

Spent casings littered the ground, all of varying calibres and sizes, none of which he recognized by sight alone. 

The entire area burnt with an unknown energy picked up by his autosenses, masking the battlefield like a miasma of smog and fog to him. Trace amounts of warp energy lingered within it, but it was slow and relaxed, unlike the fires and magical abilities utilized by the heretical sorcerers of the ruinous powers or the bolts of lightning fired by Psykers.

This was something new, something terribly new. As he scanned the ruined campsite once again, he picked up the trails again, all seven pairs moving on at a sluggish and irregular pace. They had fought, and they had been taken. He cycled his volkite, the bolters within his powerfist cocked themselves, and pushed his hydraulics to the max, breaking out into a full sprint and leaving deep imprints into the dirt behind him, his servos screeching as he followed his brother’s footsteps.

 

…

 

“What if she’s hurt, Jay?”

“Eliana’s a tough girl, Bout. She’s fine.”

Bout slumped her shoulders and weakened the grip on her rifle. She had been gone for two days, and nothing had gotten through to her. Every call went to voicemail, every text went unread, nothing on any official channels, either. Complete radio silence. On the first day of the deployment, the silence was expected. Then the day after, it became a bit worrying, but hunters were known to keep quiet for a while, so she just shrugged it off. The second day made it concerning. She had never ignored her calls, and they always checked in on eachother, even during deployments.

“I know, I know.” She rested her cheek on her fist, tucking her autorifle underneath her arm and tapping her knuckle against her cheekbone. “I’m gonna try to call her, can we have a minute?”

The ghost sighed, then nodded itself. “Fine, I’m gonna go look around. Don’t get yourself killed, okay?” Jay joked, removing himself from Bout’s shoulder and giving her a knowing blink before floating off with a chuckle.

The forest surrounding the city was beautiful. Well, at least he thought it was. Maybe it was how the Traveler loomed in the distance, or the birdsongs, or maybe it was just the forest itself. He couldn’t tell, but Jay found it soothing nonetheless. No one else to bother him, wonderful scenery, good memories, and plenty of things to see. He turned towards the city and stared up at the Travler as it bobbed up and down in the air.

As Jay marveled at the Traveler, he wondered.

 

Had it always made that thumping sound?

 

…

 

No answer. God, it had been the tenth time she had called since Eliana had left, and there was still no answer. Bout grumbled to herself, running her hands down her face and groaning slightly.

She was fine, right? Yeah, yeah, she had to be.

Bout rested her autorifle onto the crest of the hill and sat down, resting her arms across her knees. She was just being paranoid, that had to be it. Hunters were loners, right? She just needed a bit of time, arguments were bound to happen in a relationship, at least that’s what Mune had said. Eliana just needed time, right? Yeah, yeah. A little bit of-

What was that stomping noise?

She readied her autorifle and looked over the hill, aiming her weapon down it and looking for the source of the noises.

A thick fog had rolled into the area, or perhaps it was some sort of smoke or smog. Bout scanned the area, looking for any sort of ogre or minotaur that could have been large enough to be that loud. As a single small, blue eye came into view, she chuckled and relaxed her grip.

“Jay, quit messing around!”

Radio silence.

“Jay?”

A blip on her comms. The faintest, weakest signal as two red port lights came into view behind the ghost.

“Help.”

The towering figure emerged from the smoke, Jay’s shell grasped firmly within its fist as it made its way up the hill and through the cover of the fog. It was nothing Bout had seen before, no Vex construct, no Cabal savage, no Fallen vandal or Hive tyrant. It loomed over the ground, continuing its dread march towards her as it slowly increased its pressure onto the ghost, Jay’s pained whimpers being heartrendingly clear and obvious through the comms.

The figure’s ports were locked onto Bout as it climbed the hill, its footfalls shaking the very ground beneath it.

 

“ **YOU HAVE TAKEN MY BROTHERS. RETURN THEM TO ME, OR THIS CREATURE DIES.** ”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Scions are sent to secure a landing point on the moon, making room for Inquisitor Rasputin's cruiser on its journey to Terra.

“Gentlemen, I have a bounty of information to share with you, provided you stay calm, and can assure me that this doesn’t leave our squadron.” Lazarus folded his arms behind his back and walked to the front of the cargo-hold of the Vulture.

Gabriel snickered, rubbing a rag around the faceplate of his helmet to clean it. “We’re big boys, Lazarus. We can take it, mate.” He cocked his head towards his commander and rested his elbow onto his thigh, sneering at Lazarus. “Just lay it on us.”

Lazarus shrugged. “You won’t take it well, I can assure you.” Lazarus shrugged. He cleared his throat and coughed, bringing his fist up to his mouth for emphasis. “We are currently in the Sol system.”

Michael chuckled nervously. “Can you run that by me again, commander?” He rested his lasgun onto the ground before slouching in his seat. “Sounds like you said we were in Sol.”

Lazarus nodded.

The air of the cabin became much more tense in a moment. The squad turned their faces away form Lazarus, a few stammering out of confusion. Michael turned his head back to Lazarus, looking into his eyes as if he were searching for some reasoning or further explanation. He simply wished he had some to give to them.

“More specifically, we are on Mars. Around where the Fabricator General would be stationed.” The Vulture’s bay doors closed, and the room was engulfed in a total darkness for a moment before the transport’s internal lights came online. “And now, we are being transported to Luna to, Emperor willing, secure a landing zone for the Sun.” He referred to the _Conquered Sun,_ Rasputin’s personal cruiser.

“You’re joking!” Abraham cried out from the back of the transport, standing up with his fists curled by his sides. “He wants us to take the moon? By _ourselves_?” The scion threw his hands into the air, furrowing his brows at Lazarus as he gazed at him. “Make some room for him and his damned dungeon of aliens?!”

“Sit _**down**_ , Abraham.” Lazarus ordered, his voice booming down the bay and striking fear into the squadron. “You’re letting your fear get to you. Sit down and take a breath, soldier.” The order was much more fatherly and parental in tone. Abraham simply nodded, replying with a feeble ‘Yes, sir,’ before taking his seat once again.

“So, what supplies do we have?” Ezekiel asked sheepishly, running a hand down his neck. “Do we make camp?”

“We shouldn’t have to. We eat here, secure a position, call it in, and the Sun will be here by the end of the day we arrive.” Lazarus assured, taking a seat in front of the cockpit door. “Transit from Mars to Terra’s only a day.”

As the Vulture screeched to life, the Scions found themselves pinned to the ship’s walls for a moment as it broke from Mars’ atmosphere and gravity. They all slumped back, some holding a fist over their mouths to keep from losing their lunch. Checking their gear one final time, the scions sat in complete silence for ages until Lazarus rummaged through his jacket and pulled out a flask of Amasec, taking a sip while scanning the room and the faces of his men.

“Anyone have any stories to pass the time?” He asked, passing the tin to the Gabriel.

 

…

 

The Scions looked like death incarnate. Snowy white armor, melee weapons sheathed at the hip, arrays of rare and fine weapons held in hand as they descended from the Vulture, their grav-chutes slowing their descent to a crawl.

As they all landed, the soldiers secured their area, making a clean sweep of the landing zone and reporting back to Lazarus once they had finished it. They all nodded at him, and Lazarus turned to the Vulture, giving a clear thumbs up to the pilot, letting her know it was safe to land. It descended, and the bay doors opened slowly, revealing the pilot behind a heavy bolter encampment.

“I’ll keep this place locked down, don’t worry.” She assured Lazarus with a nod, and he knew damn well it was true. He gave her a thumbs up, then turned back to his men.

“We need a twelve-kilometer stretch cleared out, men. Gabriel, Michael, Abraham, you’re with me.” The three men nodded. “Ezekiel, you take the others and clear out everything six-kilos south of the Vulture. We’ll take everything north.” Ezekiel and his formation nodded, quickly flashing the sign of the Aquilla efore taking them and moving past the end og the transport.

Lazarus waved for his men to fall in line with him, and they all broke out into a sprint, moving north.

 

…

 

“Clear.”

“Clear.”

“Clear.”

“And clear.” Lazarus commented as he relaxed his grip on his lasgun, shifting one hand to his chainsword that was chained to his hip. “We’ll all rendezvous outside the building, affirmative?” All the scions replied with ‘Yes, sir!’

Bar one.

“Michael, do you copy?” Lazarus asked through the vox, turning on his heels and moving towards the exit of the building.

“Oh, yessir. Thought I saw something.” Michael’s voice was slightly garbled over the static of the vox. “Just, uh...” Radio silence, once again. “Auspex is, uh, picking something up, too.”

Lazarus’ heart skipped a beat. “Don’t move, soldier. Back into a corner, get defensive.” He ordered, tightening his grip on the lasgun and moving towards the stairs that led to the floor above his.

Radio silence, again. He moved in a full sprint up the stairs, almost tripping over his feet once the vox jumped to life.

“Not clear! NOT CLEAR!” Lasfire almost completely drowned out his voice, along with garbled, animalistic speech that matched nothing he knew. “I REPEAT- EMPEROR’S TIT-” The vox feed cut out.

Lazarus moved at a frantic pace up the stairs, following the sound of lasfire, intervals of which became longer and longer with each shot. These men were _his_ responsibility, if they died, it would be on his head.

As he crowned the final stair, a bolt of energy almost hit him in the temple, narrowly dodging it thanks to the angle. He picked up his lasgun, scanning the room for Michael.

He found him, but not in the condition he would have preferred.

The beast was massive, covered in a furred cloak that completely encompassed its massive from, bar the four massive arms that poked out from under it. The alien held Michael in the air by two hands, one around his throat, and one around his hand. Lazarus was disgusted by it.

“Drop him!” Lazarus barked, dropping his lasgun and unsheathing his chainsword, holding it in both hands as he took a defensive stance against the alien. “NOW!” He ordered, the tone and intensity of his voice even making the xeno flinch. It chortled, a noise which disgusted him utterly and completely, before crushing Michael’s hand under the force of its grip and dropping him onto the ground, leaving him to writhe in pain as he groaned through the vox, holding onto the mangled remains of his hand. The alien turned to him, folding its lower pair of arms and giving a hearty chuckle at his stance.

Lazarus bared down on the trigger of his chainsword, and it screamed to life, its teeth spinning and grinding as he held it in his hands. He steadied himself for a moment, then charged at the alien, putting all of his weight into the first swing of the sword.

 

…

 

“Little further, men.” Ezekiel encouraged them as they moved up the hill, offering a hand to the nearest scion, clearly struggling under the weight of his equipment.

As they crested the hill, Ezekiel found himself at a loss of words for the sight before him. It sat there, rested on the precipice of a massive crater in the moon’s surface that seemed to lead into a void of nothingness. Its crimson paint was cracked against the grind of the lunar soil, its mighty weapons brought down by their own weight, the command center cracked and dangling, only left attached by the bundle of wires that connected the thousands of consoles within it to the rest of the ship.

Xenos poured into its cracks by the thousands, threatening to overrun whatever possibly still remained alive inside of it. If they managed to acquire the treasures inside...by the Emperor…

Ezekiel quickly opened a direct vox-channel to Lazarus, making it private to limit the panic of the other scions under his control.

“Sir...we’ve found the Mechanicus.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okrynyr, Necron lord and technophile supreme, explores the Human ship he has found himself in, only to be interrupted rudely by a few annoyances.

The human ship was primitive. Lacking both the pure effective power and sheer nuance of  Necrontyr  technology, the machine being only as strong as long as it had overwhelming numbers behind it. As cheap of a tactic as it was, it was an advantage they had. Using it was admittedly smart of the humans. These Imperials were new to the universe, new for him, anyhow, and had somehow already managed to ruin their species beyond any possibility of repair in just under the span of ten-thousand of their standard years. It was pathetic. For some reason he had hoped that those which populated the galaxy after his people would have done better than they had, but he supposed entropy was only natural. 

However  unadvanced  the ship might have been though, no piece of technology deserved to be molested and torn apart as this one had been. He didn’t know how, at least not yet, but somehow these savages managed to make the humans out to be gods of technology, savants with millions of years’ worth of technological prowess underneath their belt. They used primitive bio-weapons, not unlike designs he had seen and crushed before, and their lower ranks were no more than simpletons; mindless peons who knew nothing but the urge to kill anything that wasn’t their masters. They were loud and disgusting, all of them looking more like an insect than any type of sentient being to him.  Okrynyr  almost felt pity for the Imperials. Almost, of course. He knew that some part of this was simply their fault, and he was left to clean up their messes. 

They had learnt to fear him at this point. They knew that when he approached, they were going to die. He found amusement in how they had learnt their place so quickly, fleeing at the very sight of him and his war-scythe. Even their apparent leaders, the ones that floated oh so menacingly in the air with a smug look of authority and superiority plastered across their faces, ran in terror as he approached. They were never fast enough, obviously, with a single blast from his gauss-flayer stripping the flesh from their bones and cauterizing it instantly, killing them from either the sheer shock or from being eaten alive, atom by atom. They had become a minor annoyance at this point. A simple flick of his wrist, or raise of his arm, and in a flurry of green gauss fire or the slicing of blades, they were gone in an instant. It had become routine.   

Up until this point, of course. This one was much larger, holding itself in a slumped posture, drooling and slobbering from its gaping mouth as it shambled towards Okrynyr. Was it blind, stupid, or simply too brave to recognize death as it should? The lord raised his weapon at the beast, momentarily hesitating before firing a single gauss bolt at the creature’s chest, watching it burrow through it and stop after a few inches. The beast grunted and staggered back, and the wound began to heal itself at a horrifying rate. The beast roared at Okrynyr, throwing its arms behind it and leaning forwards, meeting his face.  Okrynyr  was impressed by its sheer constitution and physical toughness, so much so that he considered sparing it for a single moment- 

Then the beast slammed its fist into the Lord’s side, sending him flying across the room with outstanding speed and force.  Okrynyr  slammed into the wall of the corridor, leaving a massive dent as he made contact with the metal. Peeling himself off of the plates, he scanned the rom, taking notice of the creature’s single massive ‘eye,’ which began to build up with an arcane power he couldn’t hope to describe properly. His eyes locked onto his war-scythe, and he scurried to grab it from the floor, lest the beast step on it.   

As he grabbed it, a beam of energy shot from the beast’s eye, burning against  Okrynyr’s  necrodermis, threatening to boil the metal if he didn’t move. Pushing against the force of the unholy beam, he sought cover behind a nearby stray shipping container the Imperials had so thoughtlessly left behind.  Okrynyr  felt exhilarated, completely and utterly enthralled with the feeling of battle. He waited for the beast to cease its assault, then leapt over the container, activating the chronometron chained to his hip and sprinting at full speed towards the beast, leaping into the air and slicing open its eye with the blade of his war-scythe, crippling its most devastating attack with ease. In another movement, he swept the blade along the creature’s leg, forcing it to the ground and making it take a knee, giving him more room as he lifted his scythe, ready to end the pitiful thing.  

And then his  chronometron  deactivated.  Okrynyr  slammed the scythe into the ground next to the beast, missing entirely and giving it a chance to recover, swinging blindly at  Okrynyr. He sidestepped, and forgoing the theatrics for a moment as he unleashed dozens of gauss bolts into the creature’s head, decimating it completely and leaving nothing but a gaping hole of gore and viscera where the beings head once rested. The bloody mess staggered for a moment, headless, moving without direction, before falling to the ground, splattering the floor with gore. At this moment,  Okrynyr  was glad his sense of smell was gone. He wiped the blood from his scythe using the hexagons of his  waistguard, flicking it once he was done to remove any leftover grime.   

 

…  

 

Eliana couldn’t tell what the hell this thing was. It just...tanked an Ogre’s beam for a solid ten seconds, something that could have easily melted the most well armored titan. And then it just became transparent!  

“Kay, can you send a message to the city?”  

“Signal’s just starting to come back. Whatever that tech-guy's doing, it’s working, I’ll need a minute, though.”  

“Be quick about it, I need to tell the Vanguard about this. If that thing’s not on our side, who knows what it could do.”  

It flicked the gore from its blade onto the ground, then continued its march as if nothing had even happened. Whatever this thing was, it was a beast of a machine. Eliana slowly made her way down from the broken plate on the ceiling of the ship, quietly trailing behind it as it made its way through the corridors of the ship, its stride having a certain weight to it she hadn’t seen before, and each turn of the hall it made being purposeful.  


“I’m picking up signals from the city again, and-oh, wow.” Kay paused for a moment. “You have ten missed calls from Bout, as well as a few texts.”    


“What?” Eliana came out of her crouched position, realizing all too late the mistake she had made as the creature turn on its heel and faced her. Its single eye, along with the glowing orb upon its weapon, were the only sources of light in the empty hallway. It stared at her, not raising its weapon, but eyeing her down with intent.    


“Now this is a surprise.” The machine chuckled, its voice having a hint of distortion. It sounded old, wise, and all with a smug tone of superiority about it. “Few humans would have the courage to track me, let alone at this distance.” IT snickered again, still approaching her at its leisurely pace. Eliana couldn’t move, trapped with fear and terror as it moved closer. She was going to die.  


Then there was the noise. A deep, ear-splitting howl that shook the ship’s very foundation, knocking the figure off balance and forcing it to take a step back. Eliana shook her head to clear her thoughts, realizing if she didn’t do something, _**now**_ , that she was going to die. She raised her fist into the air, light flowing through her freely as a golden gun formed itself within her hand. Her entire body looked as it was set on fire, all of it flowing towards her hands and into her weapon as she aimed it.

“Well, that’s a nice trick.” The alien snickered as it walked towards her.

“Stay right where you are, or I blow your head across the room.”

“Oh, I’d love to see you try, human.” It spat the last word with a tone of disgust and arrogance. For whatever reason, it angered her. It had its chance to back off, and it simply didn’t take it. Eliana aimed at the thing’s forehead, taking a deep breath before firing off her single round, blowing the machine’s head apart with ease.

It staggered for a moment, then slumped over, standing slouched and dropping its scythe onto the ground as it seemingly died. Something dribbled out of a container around its neck, and Eliana wagered it was simply some sort of death throe, maybe leaking liquid or coolant. As she felt her light cool down, Eliana cautiously moved to the left side of the creature and slowly picked up its weapon, initially surprised by the sheer weight of it. She turned it, looking over the design and elegance of it, admiring the alien artistry and style it had to it, like a type of fallen weapon. What did it fire? She looked over the handle for and sort of switch and trigger, surprised to find nothing of the sort on the rod of the weapon. Maybe it was aligned to the machine’s thoughts? If so, that would prove to be a bit of an-

And then the machine grabbed her arm, twisting it and nearly bringing her to a knee in front of it. She was left speechless, horrified. She had _**killed** _ it! She saw it die!

The machine lurched its head down at her, giving her a front-seat view of the damage she had done, burnt and singed metal, leaking pipes, eviscerated markings and paints, all of which was now being quickly repaired by whatever had leaked out of the container. Metal was remade and re-knitted inches at a time, pipes were threaded through the neck and into the body beneath it, even the paint returned, with the metal becoming darker than it had been when it had been made. and as it did, the thing’s grip only strengthened. It pressed, and pressed, and then something snapped, making a sickening sound that made her cry out.

As the thing’s face returned to its previous state, leaving no evidence of the damage she had done before bar the fact that its new face looked multitudes cleaner than the metal the surrounded it, its body glowed once more, and it laughed.

“It’s going to take a bit more than that, my fierce friend.” The machine snickered, leaning down and giving Eliana a clear view of its newly made face, the glow from its eye completely encompassing her face and only serving to further horrify her.

 

…

 

Achban marveled at it. Moving it from its less-secure cell had been a feat in and of itself, but doing so without damaging the infrastructure or harming the Princeps within it? A miracle he could only ascribe to the work of the Omnissiah himself.    


“How goes it all, Princeps?” He shouted from the ground, his face tilted up to view the Titan in all its glory.    
The Princeps didn’t reply, simply letting their great machine speak for them. Its plasma weaponry hissed to life, encompassing the entire room in its glow. The titan’s powerfist flexed and stretched, its sheer strength being displayed in a shower of sparks as it ground against one of the walls of the cargo-hold. The las-cannons screeching as they awoke, the vents on either side of them raising and releasing the steam and smoke that had been stagnating within it. The titan’s head moved, looking down upon the Magos. Its gaze was petrifying, its eight eyes glowing a blood-red, nearly blinding Achban with its sheer power, forcing him to cover his face.  

Then It let out a war-cry from its sirens, the howl and screams of the droning cry nearly deafening Achban, shaking him to his very core.

The titan arose.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiev, commissar for the Death Korps of Krieg, ponders on why he was requisition by Inquisitor Rasputin.

He had no idea why he had been requisitioned. He knew Inquisitor Rasputin likely had a very good and well though out reason, but it remained unknown to him. Krieg was his home, and he was content enough to stay there until to the end of his days. Being thrust into a personal cabin within an Inquisitorial cruiser, packed to the brim with delicacies, warm bedding, fine drink, smiling faces lining the halls, and loud chatter of the messhalls as he supervised the Scions was off-putting, to say the very least. He had no use for the drink or fine-dining, being full enough from his how personal rations, and the social nature of the soldiers was new to him. He cared little to attend their gambling nights or occasional parties, complacent with resting within his own room, cleaning, checking, and field-stripping his weapons and gear as best he could. It was what he was comfortable with, and it was what he hoped to continued to do.

These new aliens posed a threat to this, however. Their blood was thicker, at least for the larger ones. He hadn’t yet found a cleaning solution to properly remove the gore from his blade without some fraction of it staying on the very end of the blade, right on its cutting edge. Club soda, ammonia, bleach, flour and water (which he had previously used for how terribly coagulated Tau blood became upon drying), and even fire did little to completely remove it from the blade’s edge completely. Of course, the sword was master-crafted and sturdy as sturdy could be, so he wagered that it did little to the actual effectiveness of the weapon. Still, it was a good plan to keep his weapons in their best condition, wouldn’t want an Ork with exceptional strength or a quick Eldar to possibly find it wanting, now would he?

The Vox-speaker on his furthest wall rang to life, and he sighed inwardly. Standing, the commissar sheathed his power-sword and stood from his desk, turning on his heels and walking over to the line, picking up the reciever and placing it to his ear.

“Yes?” His voice was rough and misused, sounding awkward and clunky. His thick Krieg accent did little to help the issue.

“Inquisitor Rasputin has requested you at the helm, commissar Kiev.” It was the Navigator. Who else would it be?

“Yes, thank you, misses Vanna.” He hung the receiver back onto its rack, then turned to retrieve his respirator, donning it as well as holstering his bolt pistol. Slinging the respirator tube over his shoulder and connecting it to the chamber on the side of his pack. As it connected. The sound of ventilation filled the cabin as he moved to leave the room, the door sliding up and giving him access to the hall.

As he moved about the corridor, he found a slight bit of amusement in the awkward and uncomfortable glances and looks the Scions in the hallway gave to him, fearful of the chance that he would meet it. Unbeknownst to them, he met all of them. Underneath his mask, the commissar met all their looks. He supposed this was a blessing in disguise, though. A few snide remarks behind him, a few sly comments, a few, admittedly bold, direct insults. It was a minor annoyance at best to him. He made his way down the hall with no need for conversing with the other men, and to him, this ideal. His boots clanking against the floor was sign enough to for all friendly conversations or competitive to cease immediately, and he found deep amusement in this. No Scion was above him, and he found a nice place in the ship’s hierarchy that was snugly below the navigator, yet above even Able and Lazarus, the two Tempestors that Rasputin kept at his side at all times.

Stopping in front of the helm for a moment, he readied himself for the sudden influx of noise that was bound to follow his entrance. He took in a breath once, and opened the door.

The bridge was a bustle of movement, and at the roost at the front of the helm stood Vanna and Rasputin, the two in charge of the ship in its entirety. Ahead of them was an open view of space, a vast blankness that showed off the many moons of the red planet the ship orbited around. He marched to the front of the room, his hands folded behind his back, and stood at attention behind the Inquisitor and his assistant. They hadn’t seemed to have noticed him. He cleared his throat, and the two turned to him.

“Kiev!” Rasputin’s voice was uncomfortably warm and cheerful. “It’s good to see you.” The Inquisitor stuck out his hand, which he reluctantly accepted with a grip that was possibly too firm. When he let go, Rasputin shook his hand in the air, jokingly. “We called you hear for advice, you see.”

That didn’t bode well.

“The scion squadron we sent to, er...” Rasputin paused, then mouthed the words ‘Luna’ to him. “Haven’t responded. They’ve been gone for two days now, and are most likely hungry, and on the verge of dehydration. That is, if they haven’t used the water stored in the Vulture.” Rasputin explained, directing the commissar’s attention to the view-screen with the team’s profiles on it. “Despite not having sent the clear for an LZ, should we proceed anyway?”

“Yes.” His response was immediate, to the surprise of both the Inquisitor and the Navigator. “Those men are your responsibility, it would be irresponsible to leave them to die.” His advice was accepted, however crass as it may be. The Inquisitor nodded, and waved for the navigator to leave the room.

“Might I ask you a question, Inquisitor Rasputin?”

“Go ahead, Kiev.”

“Why have you chosen me for this?”

Rasputin chuckled deeply before folding his hands behind his back and taking a few steps towards him. “Lets say you stumble upon me consorting with, or possibly having relations with, some sort of Xenos. Maybe a beautiful Aeldari woman, or some genestealer wench. What is the first thing you do.” It was not asked as a question, but given plainly as an order.

“First, I kill the xenos.” It was a firm reply. “Then I drag you to the helm, and cut you in two in full view of the bridge’s crew, all before ordering the navigator to return us to Terra so I can see to it that your corpse is burnt within direct view of the god-Emperor’s throne.” He felt it was an adequate reply, and the Inquisitor’s chuckle reinforced this.

“I feel like you know the answer now.” Rasputin said with a nod before turning back to the helm, marching up to the control console as the vox next to it rang. He picked up the reciever and placed it against his ear.

“My Inquisitor, the warp is very...thin here. I can only get us so close to Luna without risking us taking a trip through the moon’s core or crashing into Terra itself.”

“Take the simplest course, then. I trust you with this.” He encouraged before hanging up the line. He grinned as the warp-portal opened ahead of the cruiser. And within a moment, the ship was gone, having vanished inside the immaterium.

 

…

 

“Someone give me an idea of what this is.” Zavala demanded, his voice booming down the halls of the tower. “Now!”

“No matching records. Well, except those we found in that crashed ship outside the southern wall. We’ve only got an image to go off of.” One of the ensigns pointed out.

“Then its with those men we found?” Ikora asked, her hands folded behind her back.

“So we have no idea what it is, no idea where it _comes_ from, and no clue at _all_ on what it can do?” Cayde laughed. “Well that’s just wonderful!”

“Bring me the one in charge! Now!” Zavala ordered the nearest ensign, who replied with a tentative ‘Yes, sir!’ before scrambling away, running to the holding cells.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xared unearths memories he would rather have left alone.

Xared crawled his way up the hill, his hands digging deep indents into the singed and tainted soil. What had happened to his legs? He felt nothing where they once had been, leaving a numb presence instead, unnerving him to his core. He didn’t know why, but the crest of the hill drew him towards it. It felt as if his very life depended on it, and, in some capacity, he supposed it very well did. Phosphex shells flew overhead, slamming into the dirt with such force that they sent marines flying through the air with ease. He had been told that the religions of old were nothing more than superstition and savagery, but this made him reconsider. If there was a hell, then this was surely it. 

A shell whizzed past him by mere inches, then dug itself into the ground next to him. The round blinked twice, and he hoped it had been a dud. 

It detonated inches away from him, completely engulfing his lower body in the burning liquid and immediately eating away his right arm. Xared ground his teeth together in pain, feeling the acid burn through his plate and begin to eat at his skin. He had no choice but to ignore it. He must reach the crest. He had no choice but to reach it. He mustered whatever strength he had left, and forced his remaining arm to move forward, dragging him past the hellish landscape he found himself in even as bolt rounds flew by him and plasma rounds burnt through the armor of his fellow brethren. He was so close now, he couldn’t let himself die here. He refused to die here. 

And he was there too. His friend, his ally, his brother in arms, his  _family._  There he stood at the crest of the hill, holding the corpse of another man Xared would have called the same. He called out his name, but the sounds of battle were too intense for even him to hear himself.    
“Brother!” He croaked out, inching closer to him. “How could you!” He dug his fists into the ground, picking up clumps of dirt as he continued on his warpath closer to him. Then his brother turned, and he was horrified. 

This thing was not his brother. Its face was twisted, contorted and ruined. His face had been handsome and wise, slightly wrinkled with both experience and age, as Xared’s, too, had been. This thing was a monster in every sense of the word. Its skin was stretched across its face, tight and pressed against the very bone. Its teeth curved inwardly, reminding him more of a savage beast than any sort of man. And its eyes, arguably the vilest part about it, haunted him. Pitch black and massive, they stared down at him, giving no hint of sympathy from the thing he once recognized as his brother. 

“Xared, fool!” This was not his brother, he reminded himself, forcing away the sound of his once-friend’s voice. “You had your chance!” 

“Why?!” Xared screamed once again, clawing his way towards the beast again, inch by inch. “What possessed you to do this!? Betray our Legion?! OUR EMPEROR?!”

The thing had the stones to laugh at him, and he felt anger and rage boiling up within him. “Our Emperor? You mean that pitiful tyrant!” The thing walked over to him, grabbing the collar of his breastplate and lifting him from the ground, its claws scarping against the metals. “May  _YOUR_  Emperor burn!” It laughed again. “All for the warmaster!” This was not his brother. “I wish you could see it all, Xared! Power, ecstasy, glory, prestige!” It continued to bellow and gloat, all with a twisted and horrific expression of pleasure plastered across its horrible, malformed face. This thing was  _not_  his brother. As the beast laughed maniacally, Xared’s remaining hand drifted to the beast’s side, slowly unclipping one of its spare Krak grenades, careful not to alert it. The grenade fit perfectly within his hand, feeling even better as he plucked the pin from it, and shoved it into the beast’s mouth and pressed it into it, almost reaching the creature’s throat. 

In a panic, the beast threw him, scraping at its mouth at a frantic pace, attempting in vain to dislodge the explosive inside of its mouth. Xared;s armored form slammed against the ground, something cracking inside his body under the sheer weight of itself. He struggled for breath, but found a sick sense of pride as he watched the thing that had been his brother scramble meekly in its final moments before the grenade detonated, completely eviscerating the thing’s body and showing the hill in a wave of blood and gore which landed onto what remained of Xared’s dirty-emerald green armor, staining it. 

He chuckled once, satisfied and contempt that it had been him who had ended his brother’s life. At this final though, consciousness escaped him, and he drifted into the darkness. 

… 

“I think he’s beginning to wake.”

“He took a hell of a beating.” 

“Lad managed to do more than we could to them.”

“Shame it was all in vain, then. What do you do to something that can’t die?” 

“Back up, all of you. Give him some room.” 

Xared found his eyes drifting open once again, his systems not needing to reboot as they had last time, at least not fully. The room was cold and stone, clearly some sort of holding bay. Near the door of the room, arcs of electricity danced around some spherical surface, tinting everything outside it a translucent blue. His attention shifted, and he felt at ease as he counted them all off. Sivas, Sargon, Exevec, Sekmet, Issif, Gannet, and Targok all stood in front of him, looking up to the dreadnought’s entombed helmet.

“ **BROTHERS.”** Xared boomed. “ **I AM GLAD TO SEE YOU ALL WELL.”** ‘Glad’ was a complete understatement, but it fit his feeling fairly well.  Sekmet nodded and doffed his helmet, a rare occurrence to anyone outside of his most trusted allies. His face was old and scarred, with five service studs adorning his right brow, right above his cybernetic eye that shone a perfect ruby-red. 

“The feeling is mutual, Xared.” He smiled up at the dreadnought, his old face wrinkled with experience, reminding him of a memory he wished to not think of again. “We thought you to be dead once we discovered your... _abrupt_  exit of the ship.” The chaplain chuckled softly, and the other marines did so as well. 

“ **YES. AND I, TOO, BELIEVED YOU ALL TO HAVE PASSED ON BEFORE I DISCOVERED YOUR CAMP.”** Xared nodded, trying his hardest to stand, only to be pulled back against the wall with an incredible force. He pulled back again, only for the same result. He turned his head to his arms, and unsurprisingly found them both bound to the wall by some sort of energy chain. He tugged again, only to be bound even tighter. 

“You’re in a bit of a bind, I’m afraid my friend.” Issif chuckled, a hand placed firmly on his hip. “I can certainly see why, though. You put up one hell of a fight from what we were told.” 

“Yes.” Sekmet said, folding his hands behind his back.  ”In their defense, they had a very good reason for that.” 

“ **I UNDERSTAND, BUT IT DOES NOT MAKE IT ANY LESS...”** He looked for the right words. “ **UNCOMFORTABLE.”**

The others snickered at his remark. Sekmet looked as if he was ready to say something as someone burst through the cell’s door, and he hastily placed his helmet back onto his head. The man that entered the room was scrawny, and Xared flexed the grip on his powerfist, knowing well that he could easily rip the man in twain for daring to imprison him.

“Which one of you is the leader here?” He asked.

Both Sekmet and Issif stepped forth. They glanced at eachother, then Sekmet turned his head to nod at the small man.

“Both of us.” 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiev and a deployment of scions are sent to retrieve the Ark Mechanicus.

Kiev liked Able. 

 

That was to say, in the way a Kriegsman could 'like' anyone. He respected him more than most on the ship, both for his unusual degree of intelligence, as well as his combat prowess. Between the two, Able was leagues more effective in battle than Lazarus, but Lazarus had the trust and respect of his men, which was just as important. He supposed there was good reason for that, though. As much as he 'liked' him, Kiev would be the first to admit to being unnerved by his very presence. The Tempestor had an aura of menace and insanity to him, not that he was particularly either of those traits. Able was well-spoken, polite, as well as quite knowledgeable in most subjects of discussion or debate.

He knew Able made no effort to worsen himself to the ship, but that did little to offset how people felt about him. He supposed he shared that attribute with him, possibly seeing a bit of himself within the Tempestor. Able lacked the discipline he had, however. 

Kiev stood at the back of the transport, one hand planted firmly on the pommel of his blade, with the other inside his coat, resting inside the inner-breast pocket. They wouldn't make the same mistake twice. The jet had been packed to the brim with soldiers and supplies, and wasn't the only one being sent to the surface. Ten more Valkyrie transports had been readied and armed, the total number of men being sent to Luna's surface being equivalent to that of a small army in both size and power. The first and foremost order was to retrieve Lazarus and his men from whatever situation they had gotten themselves into, then to find the Ark Mechanicus ship. From the last signal that one of Lazarus' men had sent, they had found it.

"You're ready, I presume?" Able asked through the vox, his voice followed by the sound of a lasgun being loaded with a fresh power-pack. 

"Yes." He was quick and to the point, pulling his bolt-pistol from its holster, dropping the magazine into his palm and counting the bolts within before reloading it, dropping the gun back into its holster. The bay doors of the Valkyrie closed, and darkness enveloped the cabin as Kiev unsheathed his power-sword and dug its tip into the ground, taking the stance of a defender, wrapping both palms around the grip of the blade and murmuring a few quick prayers to the Emperor. The Transport lifted from the ground, and all but Kiev flinched at the force.

The engine hummed as the transport descended to the moon's surface, deathly silent. The men refused to speak, Kiev knowing exactly why. They viewed him as a symbol of menace, horror, sheer terror. To them, he was completely alien, like something out of a children's story, meant to frighten them into subordination and cooperation through any means possible. 

To him? These men were as ammunition. Expendable, like all guardsmen. Their lives had no more importance than their purpose, and if they happened to die, so be it.

The transport made contact with a hefty 'ga-thunk,' shaking the cabin as well as the men inside of it. The bay doors slowly lowered themselves, and Kiev made sure he was the first to exit the transport. His boots made contact with the ground, kicking up a small storm of dust. Lunar campaigns were always like this, all having the same composure, no cover, little importance other than-

And them Kiev turned, looking at the planet it orbited. It was Terra. He had seen the planet in pict-caps, but never in person. Its geography matched what he had seen from depictions of it before Old Night, and by the Emperor, it was beautiful. Men had began to file out of the transports, some taking picts on the way to commemorate it, while others could only stand and watch as Kiev had done. 

"All men from Valkyries 1-4, you're with me. We're finding Lazarus." Able ordered through the vox. "Valkyries 5-10, you're with the Commissar." Kiev snapped out of his trance, then turned to the group of men he had been assigned. Nearly two-hundred men, all at his command. He would make quick work of retrieving the Ark.

"We find the Ark, and we call the Inquisitor to retrieve it. Should anything go awry, those equipped with communication gear are of most value to the mission's completion, followed by those armed with plasma and-or melta weaponry, then the rank and file guard, and then me." Kiev explained, putting the men's very lives into board categories, to which they were clearly displeased. Shame, then. He thought putting them all before himself had been somewhat touching.

Kiev marched ahead of them, hand still firmly planted on the pommel of his sword and ready to unsheathe it need be. He found himself distracted once again, his gaze turning back to Terra. It was truly beautiful. A blue planet, unlike the brown-sand color he had been told it was. The various continents upon its surface were all a healthy green, that, or a natural tundra or desert, unlike the wasteland of Krieg caused by decades of nuclear war. His eyes were fixated on it, and he could do nothing but gaze at the planet longingly, completely ignoring the chattering behind him, along with the few cries towards him of some Scion.

“Commissar!”

And he he slipped, which would have certainly led to his immediate death if a quick Scion hadn’t grabbed the collar of his coat, pulling him away from the massive pit and to safety. He nearly cried out as he came back into reality, his eyes shifting from the planet to the massive hole that was mere inches in front of him. As he stumbled back, the commissar fell onto his ass, taking a few deep, heavy breaths to reorient himself.

“Are you well?” The man who pulled him back asked, leaning down to meet his face.

Kiev nodded frantically, clutching his chest. “Yes. Thank you, scion.” He waved him off, then stood up. “Thank you.” He said again, nodding at the scion before clearing his throat and looking over the edge of the pit.

Across the hole laid the wastes of the Ark Mechanicus, the Mechanicum ship which had been sent to retrieve the titan and had requested the aid of Rasputin. Its crimson paint had been completely chipped, and it had been bent, but not broken, by the crash. By some miracle of the Emperor, it had managed to stay in one piece through the entire ordeal, even if that piece was a bit worse for wear than it had been when it initially departed. From the cracks and breaches within its surface, hundreds of figures poured into the ship’sm wounds at a furious pace, and he knew that whatever survivors laid within it had little chance of lasting long.

Some Vox chatter caused him to cock his head to the right, and he chuckled at the sight before him, a scrambling squadron of scions making their way down a hill, all looking a bit disheveled and famished.

The one whom he assumed was in charge shambled towards him and saluted.

“Sir!”

Kiev nodded at him.

“We were with Lazarus’ deployment, he sent us out to find the Ark.” The scion explained, gesturing out to the crashed ship. “How might we be of assistance, sir?”

Kiev weighed his options carefully. Every solider that could be spared would help, but at the same time, starving men were no good to him.

“Take your men and report to Inquisitor Rasputin.” He ordered, hitching a thumb over his shoulder. “We have this for now.”

The man saluted again before waving for his men to follow him and marching off.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Rasputin communicates with the City, Achban prepares to take his ship back.

"My Inquisitor, we are receiving a hail from...from Terra itself, my lord."

  
Rasputin wrung his hands.

  
"How so?" He asked, cocking his head to the side and directing his attention to the comms officer.

  
"Traditional radio hails. No astropathic signals, sir."

  
Rasputin coughed into the crook of his arm, then turned back to the ensign, clearing his throat. "Accept it."

  
There was a moment of static, then a deep, booming voice came through the vox-speakers inside the helm.

  
"This is Deathwatch chaplain Sekmet of the Lamenters chapter." The voice was filtered behind a helmet, in the way all Astartes voices were while they wore their war plate. As intimidating as the voice was, it was a welcome one. Rasputin had feared the worst for the marines, and at least one of them had survived. "Do you read us, Inquisitor?"

  
Rasputin smirked before leaning into the vox. "We read you, Sekmet. Who else are you accompanied by?"

  
There was a moment of silence.

"The inhabitants of this Earth, along with the rest of my killteam." The chaplain explained. "I assume you are well aware of our situation at this point, yes?"

  
"Moreso than you know, chaplain." He let out a grim chuckle. The Inquisitor took a swig from the ruby glass he had placed on the console before swirling the cup around and placing it back down. "How are you and your men? I would hope you are all well. If need be I can have a Valkyrie stocked with men and supplies at your location in an hour."

  
"We are fine, Inquisitor. Have you made contact with the Mechanicus yet?"

  
"We've found what remains." Rasputin sighed and took another swig. "Their ship is in a terribly sorry state. Massive breaches, aliens pouring in from all angles, all defensive systems down for the count. We've sent a team to retrieve what's left, but I doubt they'll come back with much."

  
Another voice came across the vox, not nearly as booming or as deep as the Chaplain's, but certainly more powerful than Rasputin's own.

  
"Would you require assistance in retrieving them?"

  
Rasputin's grip upon his glass tightened, threatening to shatter the cup. "Now who would this be?"

  
"My name is Zavala, I am one of the few in charge of the City your men have found themselves in."  
At least the man was polite and to the point.

  
"Well, I thank you for ensuring their safety." His grip loosened as he relaxed. "But yes, if you could spare the forces, I would gladly accept the assistance. I doubt they are prepared whatever hellish nightmares have crammed themselves within the Ark." He admitted.

  
Another moment of silence. It unnerved him.

  
"With the help of your men and these...Astartes, we will see to it that your ship us returned to you." The man said triumphantly.

  
All the Inquisitor could muster was a feeble 'Thank you' before hacking and coughing madly into the crook of his arm. He signaled for the comms officer to hang up amidst his coughing fit, grabbing onto the railing of the helm for stability. Several officers stood from their seats, concerned looks plastered across their faced.

"Are you well my Inquisitor?"

"Do you need me to fetch the medicae, my Inquisitor?"

"Perhaps you need some rest, my Inquisitor!"

"I'm fine!" Rasputin coughed out after a moment. He was touched by their concern. "But I'm afraid I've contracted a terrible disease known as _aging_ ," He joked, gesturing for them to sit back down. "and I'm afraid its horribly fatal, I've got mere seconds to live!" He laughed, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat. "Emperor alive, calm down." Rasputin snickered as he moved to leave the helm, clearing his throat again.  
  
...

The procedure usually took several hours as well as the assistance of several well-calibrated machines armed with state-of-the-art mechandrites and servo-limbs. As Achban figured, he could do it in about thirty minutes if need be with how many servitors he had at his disposal. Below his neck his sack of organs pumped and twitched, his heart, as augmented as it may be, pumped slowly but steadily as he was lifted from his work form. The mass of mechandrites and limbs were held up by a skitarii he asked very politely to assist with the transfer.

  
Changing forms always made him slightly anxious, truth be told. He thought this was reasonable, however. One wrong move or an error in a programming loop and he would be dropped onto the ground, left to his few own devices on the floor as a sack of organs below a writhing head. Omnissiah wiling, a skitarii or fellow tech-priest would see him and be willing to assist.

  
His 'body' was lowered into his combat form, and the servitors set to work connecting his spine and nerves into the frame. No matter what he did, this never got any more comfortable. Pinpricks stabbed into him from all sides. The feeling wasn’t particularly painful, but it was extremely annoying. It felt as if every nerve below his neck had fallen asleep at once and was being stimulated wildly, causing him to squirm slightly out of sheer discomfort. Being man-handled by servitors certainly did little to help, either.

  
A stinging pain ran its way through where his arm would have been, then faded quickly as he flexed the right hand of his combat form, curling the machine’s fingers into a fist and feeling the heat as its arm-mounted lascannon warmed up.

The same pain ran up his spine as he found the back of the body arching out of instinct and reflex, tearing from the servo-limbs that held it in place on the wall and taking a few shambling steps forward as the pain rain its way along both of Achban’s legs, forcing them to take a step forward, servos and gears grinding against eachtoher as they moved, screeching and howling. He flexed every part of his form, getting a feel for it once again.

The process was expedited and a tad painful, but it had worked. Achban took another step forward and stretched to his full height. This was his ship, and these aliens were trespassers.

They must be punished, then.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sekmet, Gannet, and Targok board a ship to set to arrive at the Hellmouth along with the Guardian Bout while the Adeptus Mechanicus takes a stand against the hive that have taken their ship from them.

The ship reminded him of nothing the Imperium had, and yet, Sekmet couldn’t bring himself to see it as alien in nature. Neither could Gannet or Targok, judging by the former’s complete apathy for the design. On any other sort of less-than-human ship he would have been irate, screaming up and down about the inferior engines, armor, speed, whatever he found to be lacking in comparison to the Imperium’s designs. Instead he was having a casual conversation with Targok on the performance of his narthecium, giving tips and general advice on its upkeep, commenting on how worn down the teeth of the weapon’s chainblade looked, as well as offering to do some routine servicing on it, to which Targok politely refused. Sekmet smiled at the friendly nature of it, noting that this was the most conversation they had had in days, even before they had been stranded in this place.

Sivas would have had a trip. Piloting and driving had always been his strong suit, and by the way this vessel handled, which was very smooth even as it exited orbit, would have been enough to make him hot and bothered under his armor.

The Chaplain turned his helmet to the titan sitting next to him, cocking his head and adjusting his gaze to better see her face. She was tall, yes, but significantly smaller than all three of the marines but a fine degree. She averted her eyes from them, refusing to make contact with any of them. He might as well attempt to break the ice. Sekmet cleared his throat loud enough for her to take notice.

“Bout, was it?” He asked, leaning back in his seat and resting his hands upon the Crozius that laid in his lap.

“Hmm?” She turned her eyes up at him, the lights behind her robotic face causing a glow to bounce off the dark plates of Sekmet’s armor. “Oh, eh, yeah.” She nodded meekly at him, rubbing her arm. She looked away from them again. Sekmet frowned underneath his helmet. If they couldn’t talk with eachother, what chance did they have to work together?

“I apologize for the inappropriate zeal of my brother Xared.” Sekmet held out a hand towards her, which she accepted reluctantly. “He’s ancient even by our standards, poor bastard doesn’t know what ‘subtly’ is.” Sekmet joked, smiling. Bout chuckled a bit at the last comment, smiling as well. Good progress, good progress. “If you don’t mind me asking, you seemed dead-set on helping us, even with Xared’s poor brashness. Why?”

“Oh, uh, a few days before you and your... _brothers_ arrived, my girlfriend was sent to Luna for a search regarding a pretty big shock wave there. Guess we know what that was now.” She shrugged. “We had an argument a few days before she left, and I haven’t been able to reach her since. Been almost a week now without so much as a text, so I’m just a bit worried that something happened to her.”

“Ah.” Sekmet relaxed his hand, his fingers curling around his Crozius gently. “Worry not, though. We will find her, together.” He assured her with a nod and a thumbs up. She smiled at the gesture, then let her eyes drift to the heraldry on Sekmet’s right pauldron, a bleeding heart atop a checkered background.

“So what’re those for?” She asked, turning towards Sekmet. “You all had different ones, y’know...”

“Except Xared, right?” Sekmet nodded. “Well, they’re chapter markings. Think of them as...as one of your sects. Titans, warlocks, and hunters. They’re like that, I suppose.” He explained, pointing to his own livery. “This is the symbol of the Lamenters, my own chapter.” He gestured to Targok, then to Gannet. “Gannet is a Silver Skull, and Targok is a Mantis Warrior.” He rubbed the chin of his helmet, thinking for a moment. “Issif, the lad with that glowing, fancy blade is from the Black Templars, Celmons, the one with the gun that makes him look puny, is from the Exorcists, Exevec, our fresh blood, is an Ultramarine, our pilot Sivas is from the Emperor’s Shadows, the man with the robes, Sargon, is from the Dark Angels, and Xared is what we call a ‘black-shield.’ He calls no chapter home, for reasons we don’t bother him about.”

“So chapters aren’t mandatory?”

“No, they are. But there are times where someone will abandon their chapter, for various reasons that they tend not to bring up, and join Death Watch, which is the ‘division,’ or some similar concept, that we are a part of.”

“So your chapter is the Lamenters, you’re with Death Watch, and you’re a…?”

“Chaplain.” He laughed. “To be more broad, we are all space marines. Adeptus Astartes, in high gothic.” He explained before clearing his throat. “Now with that explained, I have a few questions of my own.”

 

…

 

Achban slammed his fist through another one of the beasts, the Magos' fist beating against its head, his force hammer shattering its exoskeleton and sending fragments of the bone onto the wall next to it. He hadn't felt this exhilarated in ages, and Achban reveled in the action, brutality, and sheer violence of it all. He tore his fist from the corpse's broken skull and aimed the las-cannon mounted to his fist at an approaching xeno, firing it through the disgusting thing's chest and tearing a hole the size of a tire through it, killing the alien instantly.

To his side were Daedelus and Kephaeron, along with the other skitarii at their command. Daedelus fought with blade and bullet, hacking his way through hordes of aliens as Kephaeron and his more ranged soldiers blew apart these aliens, known as 'hive,' as Eliana had told them before going on her own way down the Ark, waves at a time with their arc and radium weapons. He had ordered the Urasax, Thallax, servitors, and Secutarii to stay behind at the barrier wall, keeping back whatever xenos managed to push their way through his onslaught in the name of the Omnissiah. 

"Forward!" Achban cried above the chaos, pointing further into the corruption spread by the aliens. "Leave none of them alive! Burn their infestation, crush their hellspawned eggs, tear away whatever hold they might have upon this most holy of vessels!" Daedelus and Kephaeron mimicked the message to the skitarii, screaming it out in lingua-technis. Their fervor was rekindled by the speech, and they began to tear through the aliens with haste, those behind the front lines burning away the barnacle-esque creep left behind by them with rad and flamer weapons, illuminating the men ahead of them in the orange glow of hellfire and brimstone. Achban knew the presence they had given themselves, and intended fully to use it to their advantage.

This ship was holy, and, by the will of the Omnissiah, Achban would not allow these disgusting barbarians to molest it any further.

He aimed his las-cannon at another one of the aliens, locking onto its horned head and firing within an instant of acquiring the target, the laser blowing apart its head as it screamed in its death-throes, clawing up where its face had been in the moments before its life ended and it fell to the ground, lifeless. It was immensely satisfying to watch, to say the least. He continued his march forward, stomping onto the corpses of fallen aliens with great glee, grinding them to a fine pulp beneath his massive mechanical legs, creating a trail of viscera wherever his feet touched.

With their apparent leadership killed, what little organization the aliens had was broken, and they began to flee madly, running deeper into the ship and being helplessly pursued by overzealous skitarii who charged ahead of Achban, leaving only Daedelus and Kephaeron at his side.

“You two trained them well.” He snickered as he vented the heat from his las-cannon.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The marines entertain themselves.

"I just don't see where he gets off leaving us in this Emperor-forsaken place." Exevec griped, pacing around the room they had been provided. Two to each, and for some reason he had been paired with Sargon.

"Because he's the Chaplain. You think you know better than him?" Sargon chuckled, sharpening his blade with a whetstone. "It's almost like he was put in his place because he knows more than the rest of us, it's insane, I know."  

"Don't patronize me, Angel."  

"What I'm saying is objective fact, Macragian. He has more experience than any of us." He slid the stone against the sharp of the blade again. "Bar Xared, of course. I think there's few alive or dead who could say they've seen as much as him." Sargon snorted as he continued to work the stone across the blade. "You can ask him yourself when he gets back, for now, just calm yourself."

"Well, why them? What do Targok and Gannet have that we don't?"  

"Well, for starters, if the Mechanicus managed to survive, rebuilding the ship will be much easier with a tech-marine. And if they have been defending themselves from something, Targok is the only one of us who knows proper medicine to heal their wounded. Plus, you know him and Sekmet have always been close." Sargon flipped his sword and looked down the edge of the blade before pointing it at Exevec. "Do you think it needs any more work on it?" 

Exevec looked at it for a moment before pushing it away with the back of his hand. "Looks fine." He rolled his eyes before donning his helmet again, letting it seal with the rest of his armor. "I'm going out, need some fresh air." 

"Good luck with that helmet on." 

"Piss off, Sargon."

... 

Issif's hand rested on the pommel of his blade as he explored the area. He knew he was being followed by those immortals from earlier, but he cared little. He now knew their strengths, and therefore he knew their weaknesses. They acted as pack animals, strong together, yes, but he suspected if he found a way to corner one, alone, he would manage to find somehow to kill them for good. The smaller ones, those that wore capes and cloaks and looked like opulent peacocks as they moved, were fast and too cocky in their actions. One action too fast or too forceful would put them at an odd footing, and he knew that he could have them on the group with ease.

Those who were massive and lumbering were terribly strong, but lacked the coordination and timing he had, and had the exact same issue about being too confident, too cocky and too sure of themselves. He knew he could outlast them if he paced himself right, and once they wore themselves out he could hastily disarm and knock them out in a single motion, or kill them with a swift stab to the neck, if need be. Considering they presented the largest threat to him, death seemed more likely. 

The ones who stood tall and thin, seemingly always with their chins tilted up at their peers out of sheer superiority were not nearly as cocky. Which was a nice change of pace to him, in all truthfulness. But they were obnoxious. They would underestimate him, thinking him to be another thing to simply swat away. He had long since learnt that overconfidence was a slow and insidious killer. He thought that, at least in this case, charging up and catching them off guard would have served a fine enough plan. 

These were all fine plans to him. But then again, he would fight them if need be. He cocked his to the right, and made a passing glance at the guardian following him, tightening the grip on his pommel for show. The man took a step back, then quickly hid behind a nearby crowd of civilians, all of whom had stopped talking once he looked in their direction. Issif laughed.

... 

"...and I had just finished planting the charges onto the spire, when across the hall me and Sargon hear millions of chittering feet scramble down the hive's disgusting labyrinth of fleshy walls and tunnels. A flood of them burst from the entrance, and we flee." Clemons had set the tone masterfully, and had managed to have kept the entire bar enthralled by the story. He stands from his chair and slams down the pint one of them had ordered for him before slamming it down on the table for emphasis.

“Then from the corner of my eye I spot it.” He gestures a finger to a random area of the room. “The swarmlord.” He tries his best to make himself larger in appearance, standing to his full height and taking a lumbering step forward. “Massive alien, utterly gigantic. Four arms, four blades as equally massive. It had been said that the mere sight of one could kill a man out of shock alone.” He jabbed a thumb into his chestplate. “Good thing then, that we’re hardwired to not feel fear. I unclip my bolter from the ammo supply, too much weight, and these bastards are _**fast.**_ While my mind was on losing weight and getting out of there, I figured it was a good idea to drop off a few grenades while I was at it.” This causes a few chuckles. “Only issue was that this, er, detonated the charges a bit too soon, and the tunnel begins to collapse around me and Sargon, the horde still chasing after us.”

“Well how’d you get out?” 

“We ran!” More laughs. “Me and Sargon high-tail it out of there, and practically push eachother over as we speed down the hall after seeing the literal light at the end of the tunnel. Our transport had arrived. I make it first, jumping across and landing on my arse. Rubbing my behind I get up in time to see Sargon, _slip._ I reach out and grab him by his boot, and his weight makes me feel like my arm’s going to be torn off, but then I pull him in and give Sivas the go-ahead to get us out of there while these beasts are firing their bio-weapons at us while the tunnel collapses behind them, unaware of their sure death. The swarmlord, vainly, throws one of his swords at us, which slams into the side of the ship, but left it completely undamaged bar a breach in the side. As we shot off away from the hive, we saw the tunnel crush the swarmlord, killing it.”

An exo from the back of the crowd stood up, sipping on a blue liquid before putting the glass back down on the table. He had eyes as blue as the rest of his body, and by the black hood the covered his head he could tell this one was a hunter. 

“You think that was exciting?” He seemed to taunt Clemons. “Lemme tell you this one...”

…

Xared enjoyed the quiet. Unlike most other dreadnoughts, he found no joy in resting himself. Simply relaxing brought him great joy. Birds rested themselves upon his tomb, singing their songs that soothed him even further. This city was beautiful. This planet, which he had been made aware was in fact Terra, was beautiful. The people were beautiful. He had not been to Terra in many thousand years, but it had never been this amazing.

He wished for this to never end. The birds, the running water from the lake across from him, the sun setting in front of him, all of it. He exhaled slowly as not to startle the perched birds atop him, and settled further within his casket. 

This was nice.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Scions led by Kiev and the Skitarii under Daedelus' control join forces while Sekmet, Gannet, and Targok breach into the ship.

Daedelus was truly horrified by the zeal of his brothers. He was strong, yes, but not nearly as bloodthirsty as his compatriots who all rammed their blades through these aliens with such glee he could have mistaken them for a clan Khornate berserkers in the midst of battle, sending viscera and gore flying across the walls of the Ark. The servitors would have to clean that up.

He raised his weapon again, firing into the horde of fleeing aliens that ran ahead of them and blowing a hole into one of their chests, killing it instantly and making its corpse tumble for a moment before being trampled by those scurrying away from the wrath of the machine god. As frightening as his brothers were, he did love fieldwork.

As the hive fled, a hole was blown into the side of the ship, followed by the silent roar of flamers into the ship from the hole. The hive behind the smoldering flame paused in their tracks, and all took a few steps back before realizing how badly they had been trapped. They could either die in a haze of flame, or be torn to shreds by the ever advancing tide of red coming towards them. Daedelus found it amusing to seem them panic, if it was only for a moment as the flamer fire died down and waves of Scions poured into the Ark from the crack they had made. At the head of them was a Commissar with his hand firmly clasped around the grip of his blade. He heard some interference on the vox, low gothic chants from across the room, and the Scions opened fire, assisting the Skitarii in thinning the shrinking horde.

Daedelus clove aliens in twain with his power sword, working in tandem with his brothers to exterminate the vermin that had dared to lay claw upon their ship. As he thrust his sword through another, he found another blade to come from behind it, coming through the front of the alien and facing towards him. Working in sync with the other blade, Daedelus grabbed the shoulder of the alien, tearing it through the side of it in the opposite direction of the unseen blade, bisecting the alien completely. As he dropped the corpse, mere feet across from him stood the commissar, holding his bloodied sword in one hand and his bolt pistol in the other.

As the last of the aliens was being dealt with, Daedelus locked eyes with the commissar. He was a Kriegsman of average height and build, which was to say he was extremely skinny and lithe, standing tall with broad shoulders and a wide stance. He pressed two fingers against the temple of his respirator, not breaking eye-contact with Daedelus.

“I’m glad to see you all live.”

Daedelus nodded before activating his implanted vox. “You are the Inquisitor’s men, correct?”

The commissar nodded, sheathing his sword after flicking it to clean it of any stray gore. “And you the Magos’s?”

“Yes. He and half of our forces split up earlier. They’re cleaning out the western wings.” Daedelus explained, pointing towards a turn in the hall that led to another series of tunnels. “We have more forces, but they’re guarding the navigator and the holy titan.”

“Ah.” The commissar pretended to know. “I have nearly two-hundred men under my control, and once we report the location of the Ark to Rasputin, more are bound to follow.” Kiev explained, holding out a hand towards Daedelus, which the Skitarii awkwardly accepted. “This ship will be yours again, in the name of the Emperor.” Kiev proclaimed boldly.

“Omnissiah’s grace.” Daedelus agreed, cycling his weapon. 

 

…

 

The knight hated this place. His sword hungered for blood and ichor, but they had been doing nothing but retreating for the past three days as whatever had been residing within this vessel fought with tooth and nail to reclaim it for themselves. And somehow, they were managing to do it. They were annoying to fight, hording themselves together and picking off his brothers from a distance, blowing holes into them carelessly and moving onto the next target.

Tasteless killing. They gained nothing from it, no power or strength. He pondered on it, plunging his sword into the ground and stretching absent-mindedly before popping his neck and rolling his shoulders. Where had these things even come from? They appeared to have the same stature and appearances of the light-worshipers, but were heavily mingled with metal and piping, a marriage of machine and flesh that was almost impressive, if a bit gaudy. The Hive had no intent to commandeer this ship, but the materials and strategic positioning would prove to be very helpful in the coming-

His pondering was interrupted as the head of one of his Acolytes was torn to shreds by a single shot, showing both him and his Wizard companion in blood. He plucked his sword from the ground and turned on his heels to face their assailant.

At the edge of the hallway stood two lightbearers. One of the stronger ones, and one of the wiser ones. As he took a step forward, sword clenched in both hands, so did something behind the lightbearers, the things boots clanking against the ground. It stood several heads taller than either of the lightbearers, and wore a skulled helmet atop its head. Two ruby-red ports were in place of where the eyes would have been, giving off a sinister appearance at best. Before the knight could do much as snarl at the thing, two more giants came from behind the lightbearers, One was adorned in white accents around its armor, and the other’s right arm was heavily plated and painted red, as well as having several mechanical limbs strapped to its back armed with what looked like weapons.

The knight growled as it took a step towards them. The one with the skulled helmet raised a weapon at the knight, and before he could do anything, everything went white in a single moment.

 

…

 

“What are these creatures?” Gannet pulled a piece of chitin from the alien’s chest. “They appear to be insects, Emperor knows how bad of an omen that is.” The tech-marine dropped the corpse before turning to face Bout and Mune.

“Hive, terrible beasts.” Mune, the pilot of Bout's fireteam, said, disgusted. “They do nothing but fight and corrupt.”

“Then we will burn them away.” Sekmet loaded a fresh magazine into his sidearm, nodding at the warlock.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okrynyr makes up with Eliana, and Achban continues further into the Ark.

Eliana’s head pounded as she peeled herself from the ground. As everything came back into focus, the pain shifted from her head to her arm, and became a burning sensation. She hissed as she grabbed her shoulder. What had happened? Her eyes began to focus in the red lights of the room, and she instantly shifted her gaze to the fallen figure on the ground, which she recognized as an ogre after a moment. Where its head would have been was taken up by a bloodied stump, which was burnt and, just by looking at it, she could tell it would have stunk to high hell if it wasn’t for her helmet.

What had killed it?

As she asked the question to herself, her focus shifted to the figure standing in front of the corpse. It rubbed a glowing blade with an oddly textured robe, grumbling to itself quietly. She flinched back, and slowly began to move backwards, going as quietly as she could. When its head turned, she paused instinctively, glaring at it.

The figure’s gaze fell upon her, its single eye illuminating its face.

“Oh, you’re awake.” Okrynyr planted his weapon onto the ground, turning to face Eliana. Her eyes turned from him, to the ghost sitting on his shoulder. Was that…?

“Kay! What the hell are you doing?!” Eliana stood and took a few hasty steps back. “Get away from him!”

Okrynyr turned his head to the ghost, the nodded at her. “It was nice chatting with you.” His tone was genuinely warm, which was a bit of a shock.

Kay turned her back to Eliana for a moment and nodded at Okrynyr. “Same here.” The ghost turned around to face Eliana, giving her a smug blink once before chuckling. “I don’t think he’s gonna hurt us.” She said before vanishing, as ghosts tended to do.

In the dim, red lighting of the ship, Okrynyr had a menacing presence. His eye glowed ominously as he towered above her, and the split in his face gave him alien appearance, even moreso than he already had. He was a titan, too. Standing at the very least four feet above Eliana, and that was with a slouch.

“So, I believe we...what’s the term?” Okrynyr placed his thumb against his chin for a moment in thought. “Ah, yes, got off on the wrong foot.” He offered his hand to her, slouching down further, using his scythe for support.

Eliana’s eyes drifted to Okrynyr’s hand, and she impatiently batted it away with the back of her own.

“You tried to fucking kill me!” Eliana took a step back and pointed a finger at him. “What the _fuck_ is your damned issue?!”

Okrynyr just laughed in reply before shaking his head.

“What’s so fucking funny?”

"You attacked me first, you do realize this, correct?"

Oh.

Eliana opened her mouth to retort, but only let out a sigh as she placed her hand under her jaw. She hadn't paused to consider the idea that he wasn't actively out to kill her. 

"Well...well what was that stunt with my arm? Yeah, explain that!" She folded her arms across her chest. "Plus, you don't exactly have the most calming look to you!" She pointed at his eye, which was one of the few sources of light in the hall. A few red lights had been turned on and illuminated the rest of the hallway, and she assumed the tech-worshippers had managed to get some parts of the ship back up and running.

"Well that's just rude of you." Okrynyr snickered. "And I had no clue if you were going to try something again. I didn't break it, it was a simply dislocation, which in all due fairness, I did fix." He pointed his weapon to her shoulder which, despite being terribly sore, was fine. "Plus, I lugged you around for the better part of three hours, had a nice conversation with your hovering little friend, and kept you from, oh I don't know, dying?" He waved his war-scythe over the corpse of the ogre. "Killing that thing would have been multitudes easier if I could have used my other arm, might I add."

“You- wait, you talked with Kay?”

“Is that her name?” Okrynyr leaned onto his scythe. “I suppose I never did introduce myself.”

Kay piped up at Eliana. “Ask him his name, please.”

Eliana stammered for a moment, then sighed, resigned. “And what’s your name?” The hunter planted her hand on her hip.

“Okrynyr, Necron lord.” He offered his hand again, to which Eliana reluctantly accepted this time. “There.” He snickered smugly. “Was that so hard?”

 

…

 

“Quiet.” Achban ordered, shushing the skitarii behind him. The skitarii paused in their tracks and stood deathly still. He had heard it. He stood for a few seconds, listening down the hall with intent.

He had heard something, a sound he knew all too well, like a massive door slamming at inhumane speeds, bolter fire. None of his forces ever used bolters. Who could be using bolters?

“Listen.” Achban ordered, pointing down the hall.

For a few grueling seconds, it was completely silent. He listened.

_**Thump-thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump- thump-thump-thump.** _

“Go!” Achban strode down the hall, taking the lead and striding ahead of the skitarii. Someone else was on the ship, humans. They weren’t alone anymore, and his pace only hastened as the sounds drew closer. His legs almost slipped out from under him as he turned a corner, sparks erupting from the ground as his massive metal legs ground against them.

He turned the winding corners and maze-like halls with not a hint of grace, only frantically speeding towards the sounds of conflict. It was close now, and the thumping was ceaseless. Alien screams and cries began to rise above the bolterfire, along with threats and orders from deep and powerful voices that demanded respect. Achban sped around another corner, and the sources became clear; astartes. Three of them, a chaplain, a tech-marine, and an apothecary, along with two other figures fighting beside them.

The skitarii soon arrived behind him, and readied their weapons, awaiting the Magos’ order.

“Fire!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry for this taking so long, and I don't think its the best thing I've put out so far, but I feel awful for not keeping you guys updated, so I hope you all still enjoy it!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reclamation of the Ark Mechanicus continues.

Rasputin tapped his finger against his desk, deep in thought. This was all so much to take in such little time, and honestly, he wasn’t sure what had happened. For the first time in decades, he was confused. He grumbled to himself and fiddled with his pen before jotting down another few notes into his book.

 _‘The Warp does, still, have a presence. The navigator made the jump easy enough, even if it was a bit inaccurate. But judging by the state of Terra, the ‘Vanguard’ that seems to protect the last city, and the large, white orb floating above Terra’s surface, this is not the Terra we know.’_ He paused his writing, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. _‘I suppose we simply need more time. Too much is happening as is, and we are spread out too thin.’_ He finished, scribbling his signature and the date, 988.M41, onto the bottom of the page.

He closed his book and pushed it away from him, sighing to himself and propping his head onto his knuckles. Until his men returned, there was so little to do. He had re-read through a small chunk of his library, wrote down what had happened in his notebook, reviewed security footage, talked with his ‘guest’ which had been captured by Able, and…

Able.

Rasputin grumbled to himself, opening up a compartment to his desk and searching though his dossiers, stopping at Able’s. He opened it, and found himself chuckling at the sheer amount of black tape it was covered in. He had his suspicions about Able, and smiled smugly as he looked down onto his psychic status which, surprisingly, was left uncensored.

Psyker Level: Omega-Minus.

 

…

 

“Well you look well.” Able removed his helmet as the room pressurized. A corpse, which had been torn to red ribbons by the teeth of Lazarus’ chainsword. The other scions filled in the room, doing the same. “What happened to your friend here?”

“He roughed up Michael.” Lazarus chuckled shakily, gesturing at the alien’s corpse. “Broke his hand, I broke its body. Simple.” He nodded over to Michael, who was passed out on the floor. “Glad you decided to stop by, Abe. But, I would have preferred you if you had been here a few hours earlier. Would’ve saved me some chain-fuel, and saved Michael over here a hand.”

“Warp travel can only go so fast.” Able pointed out with a smug snicker. “And you look like you did fine for yourself.” Able took a few steps forward and kicked over the corpse, cringing internally at how terribly Lazarus had treated it. The man was good with a chainsword, no one could deny that. He stepped over the body, then offered Lazarus a hand, lifting him off the ground and helping him stand by placing his arm over his shoulder.

“I suppose it’d be too much to ask for some water?”

“There’s plenty on the _Sun._ You’ll live. The rest of your men are already onboard, we’ve found the mechanicus, the marines are alive, and everything’s looking peachy.” He gestured for his men to grab Michael.

“And Rasputin sent you to find me? That heartwarming.”

“You _are_ his...” Able paused. “Fifth. In command.”

“Oh, so you’re above me now?”

“I’d say so.”

 

…

 

“So, where exactly are we going?” Kiev cocked his head to Daedelus. “This ship, its utterly massive. You can’t know exactly where you’re going, can you?” He sheathed his bolt-pistol, then flicking his blade towards the ground to clean it.

“I can.” Daedelus’ tone was cold, collected, and matter-of-fact. “The Solar Core. The actual core of the ship’s functions. If these xenos have corrupted it, then all is lost.”

“What in the hell do you mean ‘actual core?’” Kiev’s grip on his sabre tightened. “Do you mean you don’t have _actual_ control of the ship?”

“Too much Dark Age technology. Far too complicated to use, so we simplified. That spire is what the Magos uses to control the ship’s functions. Whatever we understand, we have a wrap on.”

“What about what you don’t?”

“What we do not know cannot hurt us.”

Kiev opened his mouth, then simply shook his head. “How far is it?” He asked, marching to catch up with the Skitarii.

“Half an hour from now.”

“Just how big is this ship?” Kiev asked, folding both of his arms across his chest.

“It is one-hundred-fifty kilometers long almost exactly.” Daedelus answered. “This is one of the five largest Ark Mechanicus ships we own. Fourth largest, actually. The number one place goes to the Sperazna.”

“I couldn’t imagine how large that one would be.”

“It is approximately one-third the size of the Australan continent on Terra.”

“Emperor preserve us, you have that on your side?”

 

…

 

  
Smoldering corpses littered the hallway once the battle was over. Between the grace of the guardians, the sheer strength of the Astartes, and the force of numbers that the skitarii had on their side, not a single alien had been left standing. They all stood silently for a moment to collect themselves, each marine reloading their weapon, the skitarii cycling their radium rifles and transmitting data to the magos, and the two guardians were simply taking it all in, processing what had just happened.

The first to break the silence was Gannet, the techmarine. He holstered his astartes-grade shotgun and stretched his arms wide, taking a few steps towards the mechanicus forces.

"Brothers!" He greeted them with enthusiasm, to which to magos replied with a similar energy, mimicking the gesture, throwing out his arms with a great deal of joviality. Even the smaller, more simple arms attached to the ribs of his combat form found themselves outstretched as far as they could go.

"Gannet!" The magos replied, his tone light and clearly relieved. He stretched down and embraced the marine briefly, patting him on the back before standing up to his full height. "I was worried we would be all alone here, then you lot show up and decide to make our job just that much easier." He nods at the other marines, then his gaze falls upon the two guardians in front of them. "And I see you have found a few allies as well! Guardians, correct?"

"How'd you know that?" Mune asks, his hand still firmly gripped around the handle of his shotgun.

"Well, we've met one of your ilk before." Achban folded all of his arms. "Bit smaller than both of you, though. Think her name was..." He hummed to himself quietly for a moment. "Damn, what was her name, Kephaeron?"

"Eliana, my magos." The ranger replied with a hasty nod.

Bout’s grip on her auto-rifle relaxed as she perked up at the name. “Eliana?” She asked, taking a few steps towards the group of Skitarii. “You said you met an ‘Eliana?’” She rephrased her question, standing a bit taller and talking a bit quicker.

Achban nodded at her. “She a spry little one. Helped one of my Alphas return to me unscathed. Well, bar a missing arm.” He joked. “We haven’t seen her in, er, lets see...two? Days now?” Bout’s shoulders slumped. “Went off to look around for us, didn’t come back.” Her grip on her auto-rifle loosened further, and she almost dropped it.

Sekmet placed his hand onto her shoulder. “We’ll find her, don’t worry.” He said through a closed channel, then turned his attention to the magos. “Where are you and your folk going, magos?”

“We are headed to the core of the ship. It’s a good few minutes ahead, and we need to be there as fast as we can.”

“Well, you have us at your service, magos.” Gannet piped up, thumping a fist against his chestplate. “I would be glad to serve among the mechanicus again.”

“Actually,” Targok cleared his throat. “Do you have many wounded?”

Achban nodded at the apothecary. “Yes, and I would be grateful if you aided them.” He gestured for a few skitarii to break formation. “You all, escort our friend to the others.”

The skitarii all turned their heads to Targok, then nodded. One waved him over, and set off.

“Be careful you two.” Targok pushed his fist against Sekmet’s pauldron jokingly before following the skitarii. “Would hate to have to stitch the both of you back together.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Imperial forces reach the core, and Eliana and Okrynyr have break the ice.

“Do you hear that?”

Gannet paused in his tracks, lowering his weapon and turning an ear to the hall, listening. Sekmet, the Skitarii, Achban, and the Guardians did the same, stopping and listening down the hall.

An echo rang out through the corridor, lasgun, bolter, and radium fire by the sound of it. Gannet recognized it in an instant, there was no mistaking them. Conflict was near, and by the sound of it, there were more than just the mechanicus wherever they were.

“That sounds like Rasputin’s men.” Sekmet commented, taking a few steps forward, holding his Crozius with both hands. “Didn’t think he would send anyone to meet us…”

“You had contact with the Inquisitor?” Achban asked, cocking his head at the Chaplain. “That’s yet another pleasant surprise, I figured him and his men would’ve been dead the moment they made contact with these _things_.” The Magos snickered to himself, relishing the opportunity to take a swipe at the Inquisitor without being stared down by thousands of men armed with lasguns, meltas, and various other weapons the Scions adorned themselves with.

“They’ve came here from Mars, believe it or not. Apparently their ship was almost completely intact bar a few curious xenos.” Sekmet explained, chaining his Crozius to his hip and unholstering his combi-melta, holding the weapon in both hands. “Sadly the same cannot be said for your ship.”

“Nonsense.” Achban insisted with a wave of his hand. “This ship will be ours again and, more importantly, in the sky again within a week.” The Magos boasted with a hearty laugh, pumping his arm-mounted lascannon into the air as a gesture of confidence to the Skitarii behind him.

Gannet fought the urge to show the Magos a pict-cap of the ship’s beaten and broken exterior. It was repairable, but it would certainly take much more than a week.

“Either way, I say we give them a helping hand.” Sekmet recommended.

“If they’ve engaged the hive, who knows how long they’ll last.” Mune commented, readying his shotgun. “They have a tendency to be a bit more than most people can handle.”

“Well, let’s get a move on then, can’t let them drown in corpses!” Sekmet waved for the others to follow him as he sprinted down the hall, combi-melta in hand.

 

…

 

The aliens were quick, but Kiev was faster to act than any of them. 

Another alien exploded as the bolt round penetrated its chest, bursting into a shower of gore and viscera, covering its kin around it in a wave of ichor and grime. Kiev had been keeping track of his kills, and felt a slight sense of pride wash over him as he passed the four-thousand mark. Today was a fine day for war.

He adjusted his aim, shifting his focus from the thinning horde ahead of him to the large, brutish creature that began running at the collection of scions. It was massive, several feet taller than the largest scion, and wielded a cleaver that was equally impressive, if a bit primitive. He tightened his grip on his bolt pistol, preparing to blow the alien to gorey chunks with the pull of a trigger. He pulled it three times, anticipating the wave of blood.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The mag was empty.

Kiev made the realization all too late, barely avoiding the creature's cleaver as it swiped at him. He moved too slowly, and his bolt pistol caught the brunt of the assault, being clove in twain faster than he could react. The commissar back stepped, and unsheathed his powersword, taking advantage of the alien's state as it struggled pull off the remains of his pistol by shoving the blade under its chin, impaling its head. The beast struggled for a moment, bringing up a claw to swipe at the blade before twitching and dying, collapsing as Kiev struggled to remove the blade before it fell to the ground.

The beast's corpse fell against the ground with a great thud, and Kiev examined his remaining weapon with great care.

There was a chink in the sharp end, as well as a bit of warping along the longer side. Minor repairs, at least that's what he told himself.

"We are running low on ammunition." Daedelus piped up from behind him, quickly blasting another thrall that was closing in on the encampment. "And I see you have lost your bolt pistol." 

"Perfect observational skills, wouldn't expect anything less from the Skitarii." Kiev snickered.

"This is a poor time for jokes." Another perfect shot, cycling his weapon.”At our current rate, we will run out of rounds within ten minutes. At the highest estimate, we have twenty.” He fired again, with the shot this time killing another behind it.

“Well then, let us take as many as we can with us.” Kiev took up a defensive stance, holding his power sword firmly in both of his hands. “In the Emperor’s name!” He cried to the scions around him, who returned the phrase in kind between lasbolts or melta volleys.

+OMNISSIAH’S GRACE!+ Daedelus sent the signal out throughout the Ark, receiving dozens back in return.

+AND WE STAND FOR MARS!+

+FOR THE ALIEN, NOTHING!+

+FOR MARS!+

+FOR LUCIUS!+

+FOR THE OMNISSIAH!+

They unleashed a torrent of rad-fire, plasma bolts, flames, and shells, all serving as an instrument of the Omnissiah’s might and fury. A ceaseless tide of death that only faltered as the men reloaded and readied their weapons once again.

Then, from the other side of the enormous room, streaks of light illuminated the darkness. A figure stepped forth, grabbing one of the larger Hive by the head and letting it flail about in the air for a moment before crushing its skull in his terrifying grasp before dropping it. A massive machine that commanded many smaller machines behind it.

Achban.

Reinforcements had arrived.

 

…

 

"So, to break the ice, I never asked you your name." Okrynyr cocked his head over his shoulder and looked down at Eliana, still marching forward.

"Kay probably told you, didn't she?" Eliana's tone was harsh and frankly quite rude. "I don't know why you're asking me." 

"Because over the aeons I have learnt that people tend to become uncomfortable when you use their name without being properly acquainted. But, yes. She did." The lord admitted with a shrug. "I still want you to tell me, though." 

Eliana mumbled something under her breath and rolled her eyes behind her helmet. "Eliana-2." She folded her arms.

"Good. Again, was that hard?" He snickered. Eliana grumbled something under her breath, but Okrynyr didn't care too much.

"So where the hell are you taking us?" The annoyance in Eliana's tone was clear. "Or have you just been leading me on a massive wild-goose-chase?”

“We are moving towards the ship’s Solar core.” He explained, placing a hand on his hip as he moved.

“Okay, but why though?”

“The closer I was to it, the more dense the concentration of these _savages_ became.” He spat the word ‘savages’ with a degree of disgust. “So, logically, they’ve taken root there.”

“And what’re you going to do when we reach it?”

“Kill them all, obviously.” He snickered.

“Right.” Eliana rolled her eyes.

After the brief exchange, the two walked in silence for several minutes, and Eliana observed him. What the hell _was_ he? He was made of metal, seemed to be sentient and sapient, but clearly wasn’t an exo of any type. The hive, typically, didn’t use metal, but he matched some of their architecture and design, with bits and pieces of him almost looking organic in spite of its metallic sheen. The symbols and markings which adorned his body reminded her of Fallen sigils, but at the same time these were very specific and calculated, rather than the haphazard nature of Fallen-text.

“Mind if I ask you a rude question?”

“Go ahead.”

“What the fuck are you?”

Okrynyr snorted and paused for a moment, placing a hand against his chest as he laughed. He certainly hadn’t expected her to be so blunt about it.

“What? Did I say something stupid?”

“No, no, really,” He insisted, chuckling. “Just the way you said it.” He cleared his throat. “I am an Overlord of the Sphetek Dynasty. Well, technically the Phaeron now, I suppose.”

“The fuck is a ‘Phaeron?’”

“Ruler. I’m the only one left now.”

“Oh.” Well, now she felt like an ass. “Well, what happened?”

“Most of us were corroded beyond repair when we awoke, either that, or completely... _brain-dead.”_ He looked for the right word. “We only had one world to our name, everything else had been stolen from us. When we made an attempt at reclamation, the rest of us were beaten back.” He sighed. “I was left alone.”

“Oh I’m...” She huffed, running a hand along her helmet’s face. “I’m sorry man, that’s...”

“It’s fine.” He waved a hand dismissively at her. “This happened thousands of years ago, I’ve gotten over it by now.” He cleared his throat. “But, after I found out everyone else was gone, I took the one ship we had left, a Cairn class, along with our scarabs, spyders, and a few…other, vessels, and departed from our world. I had a ship the size of a small island to myself, and eventually I stopped paying attention to where it was headed, and went back into stasis for a few more decades.” He would have smiled at the memories. “I would stop every so often, observe the little species on planets I found, throw some necrodermis tech at them if they were smart enough, and be on my merry way again. It was a long ride, and I saw many species rise, fall, die. Even saw the humans here fight amongst themselves and split a few thousand years back.”

“Well, how did you get here then?”

“Crashed, I suppose.” He shrugged. “Then I guess these Imperials found the wreck, and dragged me out.” He placed his thumb against his chin. “Wonder what they did to my ship...”

“And you’re not mad at them?”

“Not at all. I admire this sect of humans, the _Adept-us Mechanic-us,_ I think.” He butchered the pronunciation. “They’re entirely dedicated to the preservation of technology, and that’s admirable.”

“And you’re not going to kill them, right?”

“Hopefully not. They’re adorable to me, same with most organic life.” He shrugged again. “Oh, and by the way, how have you managed to replicate human gestures and such with such perfection?”

Eliana raised an eyebrow and stopped in her tracks. “Excuse me?’

“When you passed out your helmet fell off. I know that me and you aren’t the same, but we’re similar enough. You’re mechanical, like me.” He gestured towards her.

“So, you know I’m an exo?”

“Is that what you call yourselves?”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xared enjoys the view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This is a quick something I'm just putting here to let you all know I'm still working on this, but I've just been super busy lately. I'll have an actual chapter up soon, and I'm sorry for taking so long with this, but thank you all for being patient!

An eternity of war.

Xared had been fighting for ten-thousand, eight-hundred years now. He was convinced he was the last loyalist of his legion still alive. The others, likely, had either died during the Heresy, or had went rogue. He was long lived, and his fight was eternal, just as he was.

Sometimes, he wished for death. Not in a suicidal sense, but in the sense of a warrior on his last leg. He simply wished to die standing.

But this had made him reconsider. The Terra he knew was pure of any xenos, true, but it was also barren; no natural born life to speak of bar the stubborn humans who clung to it. This Terra? This 'Earth?'

This Earth was lush. Its atmosphere was thick enough to protect from the sun's rays, its oceans nurtured life, its forests provided shelter to those which called it home. A fresh Earth.

"It's wonderful, isn't it?" A feminine voice from behind him asked. "Personally, I'm a fan of Io's scenery more, but you can never go wrong with Earth."

"YES." Xared boomed, not bothering to turn to meet the voice. "BEAUTIFUL." He was hard-pressed to find any other word, no other could possibly encompass his wonder.

A small figure stood beside him, holding onto the railing of the edge of the tower's wall. Her skin was dark, and she could have been described as bald were it not for some short hairs gracing her head. She reminded him very much of a remembrancer he had met in days past. She wore a purple robe, and had, what Xared could best describe as, a holographic tribal band around her arm.

"I SIMPLY WISH MY TERRA HAD BEEN AS THIS ONE IS."

"And what is yours like?" She asked.

"A WASTE. AN IRRADIATED HELL HOLE WITH NOTHING." He felt like merely saying this was some sort of heresy. "SMOG BLOTS OUT THE SUN, THERE ARE NO PLANTS, NO TREES, NO DENSE, GREEN LIFE ON ANY POINT OF IT."

"Sounds awful."

"YOU ARE CORRECT, I MUCH PERFER THIS EARTH TO THAT TERRA." He joked. This place was tranquil; serene. Xared wished he had seen this sooner, a place with no war. It was beautiful.

"Might I ask what your name is?"

"XARED." He turned towards her and nodded his helmet at her. "AND YOURS?"

"Ikora Rey."


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The forces at the core receive unexpected reinforcements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I want to say I am so sorry for this taking this long, I have been insanely busy with school, and I just haven't found the time to work on it recently. However I am not leaving this behind, and when summer rolls around I plan to do a lot with this! But I know this is nowhere near the best thing I've written, but I feel like I need to put something out.
> 
> Thank you for staying with me and reading this far!

Kiev slashed through another thrall, his blade getting caught in the carapace and snagging for a moment before he ripped it free. He fought with a renewed vigor and fury, emboldened by the arrival of the additional  Mechanicus  forces and the  Astartes . The  Skitarii  did the same, as well as the scions under his command, each fighting faster and dirtier than they had before in a desperate attempt to break through the hordes of aliens well enough to reach their reinforcements.  His blade was dulling, his reactions were getting slower, and his will was slowly but surely being crushed by hours of grueling combat and the weight of the bodies of those who had died under his watch. 

“Forward!” He commanded, thrusting his sabre into the air. “A few more steps! Forward!” The men replied with tired and sore cheers,  continuing the march forward, cleaving, blasting, and blowing through any targets that stood between them and the others. 

Daedelus  was already in contact with the  Magos , and was quick to inform him of the losses, fatalities, rounds fired, grenades thrown, and progress made on purifying the ship’s corridors. So many had taken up root here, he knew, they  _ all _  knew, that once their hold here had been broken, it would be over for these wretched aliens. This bit of insight made the  Skitarii  ruthless, unmatched by the scions in the raw damage they were dealing to the alien scum that had taken root aboard their vessel.

Achban  had received the message clearly, and distributed it among the  Skitarii  under his control, causing the same effect. 

The Solar core was the closest thing to hell any of them had ever seen, with alien corpses piling up chest high, and the bodies of men falling short by mere inches. 

And in a moment, everything in the room silenced itself, beginning with the aliens. Those smaller wretches cocked their heads towards a specific spot in the dark and hissed, followed by the more massive ones whom bore cleavers and blades releasing deafening roars before taking a few steps back. Soon, the Imperial forces paused too, all of them turning their attention to the dark. 

Two lights dimly lit the veil. They were a sickly, alien green, one in a perfect sphere, and another a few feet away, in a cylinder that pulsated and vibrated with energy. The cylinder tilted itself forward, pointing towards a knight that was unfortunately ahead of the horde, and let loose a bolt of green energy that bore its way through the alien’s chest, boiling it from the inside out.

The knight gurgled for a moment, dropping its blade and desperately clawing at its chest for a moment before falling over, dead. 

The sphere moved forward and revealed itself, displaying its black, metal body to all those in the room.  It towered over the  skitarii , it loomed over the scions, and it even dwarfed the marines in the core’s room, leaving only  Achban  himself taller than it. 

A  necron  lord. 

“Hello, Imperials!”  Okrynyr  gave a polite bow towards the marines,  Achban , and the  skitarii  before turning and doing the same to Kiev and  Daedelus . The hive continued their retreat, hissing and roaring at him as they continued scurrying back towards the dark.  Okrynyr  let out a soft chuckle before haphazardly letting lose another shot into the dark, clearly hitting  _ something. _

Achban  commanded the  skitarii  to hold their ground immediately. 

His guest had arrived, and he would hate to harm him. 

“I come with no ill-intent towards you all, I simply wish to get a proper explanation once this is all done with, understand?” He nodded towards  Achban , who replied with a nod of his own. “Good! Now, allow us to deal with these worms, yes?”

Okrynyr  gestured towards the retreating horde with his scythe, and then the battle continued. 

… 

This thing was disgusting to him.  Sekmet’s  teeth ground against  eachother  at the thought of it, allying with aliens? Reprehensible!  The  necrons  were vile! Damned! They had unmade themselves in their vain attempt at glory, and now they were paying for it. His grip on his  Crozius  tightened to the point where the handle bent under the sheer force. He repeated the mantra of his chapter to himself quietly along with the Deathwatch litany, hoping to soothe his nerves as he advanced towards the cowering horde. 

The  mechanicus  thought themselves above the Emperor, did they?

“We need to end this alien.”  Sekmet  demanded, pushing aside a  skitarii  and slamming his  crozius  onto an unlucky hive, completely obliterating anything above the ribcage. 

“That will be my  descision . ”  Achban  ordered, pointing towards  Sekmet  before turning to blast an approaching knight. “You will simply have to wait.”

Sekmet’s  fists clenched even harder and he growled quietly to himself. “You-”

“Brother?”  Sekmet  flinched at Gannet’s voice. “Are you well?”

“Yeah, you okay?” Bout chimed in through the  vox . 

Sekmet  shook his head, placing his palm on the face of his helmet and dragging it down, cleaning it off. 

“Yes.” He cocked his head towards the two and nodded at them. “I’m just...” A nagging thirst clawed away at the back of his throat. “A bit under the weather. Thank you.” He loosened his grip on his  crozius  as Gannet placed his hand on his shoulder. 

“There are many  xenos  to kill, my friend. Can’t have you breaking on us!” Gannet joked. 

Sekmet  nodded, chaining back his  crozius  and unholstering his sidearm. Gannet was right. 

He pushed his way through a horde of  skitarii , forcing himself towards the vanguard of the assault, forcing an arm forward and blasting a knight point-blank with his  melta . It clawed at its face and chest, attempting to scrape off its own melting flesh and carapace before it was crushed underneath the unending tide of hive.  Sekmet’s  hand wandered to his thigh and he clasped the grip of his  crozius , tearing it from its mag-chain and slamming it into a screeching thrall, obliterating anything above its chest and sending it hurdling into the horde. 

Gannet and Bout joined him, pushing past the  skitarii  and engaging the hive head-on. Gannet cocked his oversized shotgun over his head and blasted through a group of acolytes to his left, leaving their bodies riddled with fist sized holes as they twitched and spasmed on the ground. 

Bout, instead of fighting with any weapon, opted to fight like a true warrior. She pummeled thralls into the ground, and  Sekmet  would be lying if he said he wasn’t impressed. For one of her size, she was doing an awful lot of damage. She grabbed a thrall by its skinny throat, watched it for a moment as it clawed at her arm, and then threw it into an incoming wave, knocking them all down and sending them scurrying back to the dark. 

Sekmet’s  eyes strayed from the battle for a moment, turning instead to the Scions to his left, who were standing in awe of him several meters away. He threw his  crozius  into the air, and cried out to them.

“For the Emperor!” 


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hive are left without a leader after a quick strike by the marines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this is the longest this will go without an update! I never intended for this to go on hiatus for so long, but now that school is out for a little while, I intend to be a bit more active with it! Thank you all for your support!

The skitarii were too quiet for his liking. Their movements were too mechanical, too precise for him, they moved more like servitors than any living thing he would have liked to have seen as such. Their augmentations reminded him far too much of Gannet, with their faces being all but removed to make way for respirators and bug-eyed optics.

"So, how long have you lot been defending this ship?"

"A week." One of the three replied hastily. "Your presence is a good omen. Our wounded have recently reached the hundreds, and our dead are almost in the thousands now."

"Emperor's mercy, I wish I had only been here sooner." Targok apologized, his eyes wandering around the expanse of the hallway. "How many of you are here? I mean, in total."

"Approximately one-hundred-thousand. Not counting servitors." Another replied. "Nearly fifty percent of our forces are Skitarii. Twenty-five percent are Thallax. This number does not include battle automata." His tone was cold, calculated, and matter-of-fact.

"You have quite an impressive army."

"Magos Achban is a Dominus. He prepares for the worst fights and utterly relishes them." The third one spoke up, his bird-like talons scraping against the metal floor of the ship. "This loss is purely superficial. We will recover, in time. The ship and the titan matter more than all of us to the Omnissiah's will."

"The mechanicus has a rather odd way of looking at things." Targok joked. The disregard for the loss of life concerned him, truth be told. "But I agree that gaining control of this ship again is paramount. I will ensure your brothers are all back to fighting strength post-haste."

"What experience do you have with augmentation." It was posed as a statement rather than a question from the second one.

"Not much, to be honest." He shrugged. "But I promise to do my best to save your brothers."

The group turned the corner, and found themselves in a clearing before a group of mechanicus forces composed of secutarii, servitors, automata, electro-priests, thallax, ursarax, along with a few injured skitarri. Mountains of hive corpses surrounded them, smoldering from plasma rounds, radium bolts, and lasrounds. A single thallax, with golden accents to his exoskeleton, waved the group over.

"Kinsmen." It boomed, resting its photon thruster in both hands.

"Brother." The leftmost skitarii pounded his fist against his chest. "We are glad to see you live."

"The feeling is mutual. How goes the reclamation?"

"It goes perfectly." Targok was a bit disturbed at how casually they talked about it. “We have encountered a group of marines,” He gestured to Targok, who responded with a bit of a lean forward, less than a bow, but more than a nod. “who have agreed to assist us.”

“Excellent.” The thallax extended a hand to Targok, his palm facing the ceiling. “This is an Imperium custom, is it not?” Targok snickered, then accepted the shake, turning his wrist and adjusting the shake to the correct position. The thallax turned its attention to Targok’s pauldron, glancing over it for a moment. “You are an apothecary, correct?”

“Correct.” Targok nodded, shifting his hand to his narthecium, fiddling with its components. “I came here to tend to your wounded, would you allow me to.”

“I wouldn’t stop you, trust me.” The thallax gestured to behind the firing line, which had been fortified to hell and back.

Targok patted the thallax’s shoulder before passing him.

 

…

 

"Eliana-" Okrynyr impaled a knight with his scythe before tearing it out, nearly bisecting it. "-that thing you did, with the glowing gun, can you do that again?"

"Once." She emptied an entire magazine into an approaching knight. “And I only have one shot.”

“Good.” Okrynyr fired a bolt through a wave of thrall, frying them all in an instant. He scanned the approaching wave of hive, looking for whatever seemed to possess any semblance of leadership among these _animals_. A floating insect, a few oddly colored pieces of cannon fodder, but nothing terribly important looking.

Bar the glowing knight. The thing was as tall as he was, wider than him, and covered in a slightly glowing exoskeleton. It locked eyes with him for a single moment, and it looked as if it laughed. This was it, without any doubt.

“Wait for a good opportunity, I need you to make sure this thing is _dead_ , do you understand?” Okrynyr asked Eliana, twirling his scythe in an attempt to make a scene at the knight. The knight did the same, flicking its cleaver towards the ground and throwing its arms back before releasing an animalistic cry at Okrynyr. It shoved any of its allies aside as it approached him, slobber cascading from its mouth as if it hungered for conflict.

Okrynyr gentle pushed Eliana aside, then began to approach the knight, scythe tilted towards the ground. He was confident he could beat this _animal_ in a one on one fight. Just him and it, like putting down a rabid dog.

Then he paused, hearing something coming up from behind him.

_**Clunk, clunk, clunk, clunk, clunk clunk.** _

The sounds got louder, approaching him. It took him a moment to realize what it was, but the astarte warrior dashing past him, crude power weapon in hand, told him all he needed to know in an instant.

“No-!”

The marine gripped his weapon in both hands, a small, decorated mace with an angel’s wings,before putting all of his weight into it, and slamming it into the knight’s chest, sending the creature back a few feet. Before Okrynyr could act, another set of footfalls, heavier this time, came up from his other side. Another marine charged past him, with mechanical arms carrying a massive hammer behind him, and a primitive shotgun in his hands. Okrynyr had to admire their foolhardiness, even if it was more than likely going to end in their deaths.

The first marine grabbed the knight’s arm and twisted it behind the knight’s back, and he gave a quick nod to the approaching marine.

The dozen or so mechanical arms attached to the pack of the second marine moved in tandem with one-anther, lifting the utterly massive hammer above the marine’s head and setting it in front of him. The marine tore the hammer from the arms, almost being knocked off balance from the thing’s sheer weight falling into his hands.

The marine raised the hammer, rearing it back, the striking end over his right shoulder, and with the force of a titan, slammed the weapon into the knight’s head.

It popped like a ripe fruit.

The first marine let go of its arm, allowing it to stagger back for a moment, headless, then letting it crumble to the ground, gushing a sickly-yellow blood onto the two marines, staining their pitch-black armor.

Okrynyr now remembered these were the premier warriors of the Imperium for a reason.

The other hive turned their attention to the marines, remaining deathly silent for a moment. All fighting ceased, for a single second. The light of conflict subsided, leaving few sources of illumination in the room.

The marine with the hammer planted the striking end of it into the ground, letting the resulting ‘clunk’ echo throughout the solar core. The other marine removed his sidearm from its mag-chain, holding it in a single hand and disengaging the safety, letting the combi-melta glow in the darkness.

 

…

 

Kiev had only rarely been privy to the raw power and strength of the astartes. It was amazing the first time, but now it was simply satisfying to see.

He raised his power sword into the air, the crackling arcs of electricity dancing along the length of the blade as he held it above his head.

“Forward!” He ordered, signaling the fighting to resume among both the skitarii and the scions.

And so it did.

The room reignited in a burst of gunfire, illuminating the, now leaderless, hive, as they fled from any crevices they could find in the ship’s plating.

Kiev pushed through his men, eager to engage in the fight, his power sword charged in his hand, pulsing with energy.

He vaulted over a crouching scion before rolling and impaling an approaching knight with his weapon, then tearing it out with a flick of his wrist, nearly bisecting it in the process. He backsteps, then beheads the knight in a moment, moving faster than it could react.

Another knight, on his left, makes the mistake of being seen by him. He moves to slice into it, aiming for the soft flesh underneath its jaw.

And the power-field surrounding the blade goes out.

The sword clangs against the knight’s carapace, leaving a small slash in the exoskeleton, but nothing more. The knight laughs, a guttural, bestial noise that echoes even through the battlefield, refusing to be drowned out by the sounds of conflict.

The knight swats the power sword out of his hand and grabs Kiev, lifting him by the throat even as he struggles and thrashes against it’s grip, pounding his fists against the alien.

It raises its blade to slice into him, hefting it up into the air and leaving it raised-

And then a blue bolt of energy flies through its skull, causing it to release him. Kiev slammed against the ground, landing on his ass. He crawled backwards, watching the knight fall face first into the ground.

“Now is no time to die.” Daedelus hefted Kiev up by the cable connecting his gasmask to the rest of his armor. “Especially when you are so close to completing your goal.”

Kiev took a moment to collect himself, picking his weapon from the ground and wiping the gore off from it and onto his trousers.

“Yes, yeah, okay..” He nodded in agreement. He glossed over the power sword, noting the chinks, bends, and warps in the sharp of the blade. It wouldn’t last much longer in this condition. Daedelus swatted Kiev’s shoulder to get his attention, then handed him a power knife.

“You will need this. Discard the broken one.”

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Magos makes a most heretical agreement, while the Inquisitor digs a bit deeper on one of his men.

Kiev felt his chest slowly rise and fall, being unable to focus on much else, being simply too exhausted to do so. The aliens were gone, the Ark was theirs again, and he felt as if things were beginning to reveal themselves in regards to this strange place. The power knife he had been given rested against the inside of his thigh, its charge completely spent. His power sword was in the same state while it rested within its sheath. He grunted as he adjusted himself to sit straight up against the bloodied wall he had collapsed by.

His men were gathering their equipment, helping each other up, and collecting their dead as he watched them. Despite the costs, victory was theirs. These men would move on, he understood that they could never have the understanding of death he had, but they were all strong men. He knew that death was the duty of all soldiers. A harsh reality, but something everyone came to terms with in due time.

Kiev’s eyes shifted, glossing over the massive core room, glancing over all the key members of the battle.

The marines were chatting with the Skitarii, well, mainly the tech-marine. His arms were folded as he nodded along to whatever they were saying, The chaplain was simply listening along, tapping his fingertips along the thigh of his power armor.

The xeno and the magos seemed to be looking over the core from the safest distance they could. Occasionally the glowing line running down the alien’s face would light up, then the same would happen to some of the blue lights that were strung around the magos’ body. He assumed the two were discussing useless techno-babble.

The two unknown variables that had arrived with the marines and the xeno had sat down together, and seemed to be having a very serious heart-to-heart. He was curious what it was about.

Then his eyes met those of a corpse a few feet away from him. The man’s helmet had been torn off, exposing his last expression to anyone who dared look. He was drawn to the man’s eyes instantly. The poor man was terrified before he had been gored by a horde of thrall. Almost every ounce of flesh below his chest had been torn away, exposing bone and muscle to the open air. He only looked away when a duo of stormtroopers had picked up the cadaver, and then tossed it into the pile. He had been so afraid.

Kiev jumped as his mask’s vox beeped. It was Rasputin’s frequency. He pressed his middle and index finger against his temple,

“Yes, my Inquisitor?” Kiev asked, being faintly surprised at how rugged and exhausted his voice sounded. “I assume you’ve broken into Terra’s atmosphere?”

Rasputin laughed through the vox. “Quite, yes. How goes the mechanicus?” The inquisitor asked, his voice slightly distorted through the vox.

“The ship is theirs once more. Heavy resistance, but we’ve experienced only slight losses.”

“And by _slight_ you mean?”

“Sixty dead.” Kiev elaborated. “Double that injured, counting myself.”

“How injured are you, Kiev? Do you need me to send a medicae?”

Kiev didn’t know quite how to respond to the question. He mulled it over for a moment, then shook his head slightly. “We will need a ship to cart away the dead more than we will need that, believe me.”

 

…

 

“You don’t know what you’re standing in, do you?” Okrynyr’s voice was a shrill whine compared to the magos’.

“And you do, xeno?” Achban asked, towering over the necron. Dozens of hands along his midsection fiddled with themselves, softly clicking and clanking as they rubbed against each other. “What would the alien know of human ingenuity?”

Okrynr snickered, waving his hand dismissively at the techpriest. “More than you would give it credit for.”

Achban was furious about the heresy behind his words, but at the same time, he was intrigued by them. He held his tongue for a moment, knowing he must choose his next words carefully.

“Explain.”

Okrynyr’s eye shifted to the techpriest.

“I am ancient beyond record. I was old when these stars were young, human.” He gestures towards the solar core. “This ship? I was living when it was in its prime, and what a _**prime**_ it was.” Okrynyr explained, taking a few more steps towards the core. “Your people were great once. You had, _have_ , so much potential.”

Achban recognized what the alien was doing. “Get to the point.”

Okrynyr laughed at the man’s response. “Fine, fine.” He planted his warscythe on the floor, twirling it on its hilt. “I have no ill will towards you, or your people. In fact, I feel the exact opposite. I would love nothing more than to return your people to their previous state. We will do it together, should you simply allow it.” Okrynyr cocked his head at Achban. “So what do you think, _my magos_?”

Achban hesitated once more, curling the fingers of his primary hand and rubbing them against his mechanical thumb. How could he refuse?

“Show me.”

 

…

 

Rasputin swirled his cup of brandy gently in a circle out of sheer boredom. Sixty dead. Nearly thirty percent of the men he had sent with Kiev. He supposed it had been worth it, no price was too great for the reclamation of an Ark. He hummed to himself for a moment, then reached back over his desk and grabbed a series of papers labeled with ‘ABLE.’ He opened it and skimmed through the records once again, reading over what little he could that wasn’t censored or covered in black ink.

There was his name, first name only, obviously, the month and day of his birth, not the year, surprisingly his psychic level was left alone; omega-minus. This told him all he needed to know, of course.

Able was not the man he had said himself to be.

To be such a psyker, could he even be called such a thing, was something rare. Beyond rare. Something impossibly rare. He knew this well, all Inquisitors did.

Able had been drafted in with another group of men from Nazareth. Rasputin hadn’t taken the time to read his dossier, he hadn’t read any of them. Too many men, too much effort. He was regretting that now.

He would have been informed had Able just so happened to have been any other blank. The planetary governor would have made sure to have told him. Few blanks just get past the screening process.

He knew what this meant, he was no fool.

 

Someone had put Able there.

 

Someone had put him there as a plant.


End file.
